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THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE HOME 

AND THE WORLD 


BY 

Sir RABINDRANATH TAGORE 


TRANSLATED 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Copyright, 1919, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and clectrotyped. Published May, 1919. 



MAY -8 1919 


NorSuooti ^re20 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 

©CU5{ 5400 


PUBLISHERS’ NOTE 


This story was translated by Mr. Surendranath 
Tagore, and the translation was revised by the 
Author. 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

PAGE 

Bimala’s Story 

CHAPTER II 

Bimala’s Story 21 

Nikhil’s Story 37 

Sandip’s Story 45 

CHAPTER HI 

Bimala’s Story 51 

Sa^jdip’s Story 55 

CHAPTER IV 

Nikhil’s Story 74 

Bimala’s Story 80 

Sandip’s Story 96 

CHAPTER V 

Nikhil’s Story 108 

Bimala’s Story . . . 116 

Nikhil’s Story " . . . .129 

vii 


viii THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


CHAPTER VI 

PAGE 

Nikhil’s Story 137 

Sandip’s Story 147 

CHAPTER VII 

Sandip’s Story 155 

CHAPTER VIII 

Nikhil’s Story 174 

Bimala’s Story 187 

CHAPTER IX 

Bimala’s Story , .197 

CHAPTER X 

Nikhil’s Story 224 

Bimala’s Story 235 

CHAPTER XI 

Bimala’s Story 246 

CHAPTER XII 

Nikhil’s Story 267 

Bimala’s Story 286 


THE HOME AND THE WORLD 










THE HOME AND THE 
WORLD 


CHAPTER I 
bimala’s story 

I 

Mother, to-day there comes back to my mind the 
vermilion mark ^ at the parting of your hair, the sari ^ 
which you used to wear, with its wide red border, and 
those wonderful eyes of yours, full of depth and peace. 
They came at the start of my life’s journey, like the 
first streak of dawn, giving me golden provision to 
carry me on my way. 

The sky which gives light is blue, and my mother’s 
face was dark, but she had the radiance of holiness, 
and her beauty would put to shame all the vanity of the 
beautiful. 

Everyone says that I resemble my mother. In my 
childhood I used to resent this. It made me angry 
with my mirror. I thought that it was God’s unfair- 
ness which was wrapped round my limbs, — that my 
dark features were not my due, but had come to me by 

1 The mark of Hindu wifehood and the symbol of all the devo- 
tion that it implies. 

2 The sari is the dress of the Hindu woman. 


2 


THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


some misunderstanding. All that remained for me to 
ask of my God in reparation was, that I might grow up 
to be a model of what woman should be, as one reads 
it in some epic poem. 

When the proposal came for my marriage, an astrol- 
oger was sent, who consulted my palm and said, * This 
girl has good signs. She will become an ideal wife.* 

And all the women who heard it said : ' No wonder, 
for she resembles her mother.* 

I was married into a Rajah’s house. When I was a 
child, I was quite familiar with the description of the 
Prince of the fairy story. But my husband’s face was 
not of a kind that one’s imagination would place in 
fairyland. It was dark, even as mine was. The feel- 
ing of shrinking, which I had about my own lack of 
physical beauty, was lifted a little; at the same time a 
touch of regret was left lingering in my heart. 

But when the physical appearance evades the scru- 
tiny of our senses and enters the sanctuary of our 
hearts, then it can forget itself. I know, from my 
childhood’s experience, how devotion is beauty itself, 
in its inner aspect. When my mother arranged the 
different fruits, carefully peeled by her own loving 
hands, on the white stone plate, and gently waved her 
fan to drive away the flies while my father sat down 
to his meals, her service would lose itself in a beauty 
which passed beyond outward forms. Even in my 


BIMALA’S STORY 


3 

infancy I could feel its power. It transcended all 
debates, or doubts, or calculations : it was pure music. 

I distinctly remember after my marriage, when, 
early in the morning, I would cautiously and silently 
get up and take the dust^ of my husband’s feet without 
waking him, how at such moments I could feel the 
vermilion mark upon my forehead shining out like the 
morning star. 

One day, he happened to awake, and smiled as he 
asked me : ‘ What is that, Bimala ? What are you 
doing ? ’ 

I can never forget the shame of being detected by 
him. He might possibly have thought that I was try- 
ing to earn merit secretly. But no, no! That had 
nothing to do with merit. It was my woman’s heart, 
which must worship in order to love. 

My father-in-law’s house was old in dignity from 
the days of the Badshahs. Some of its manners were 
of the Moguls and Pathans, some of its customs of 
Manu and Parashar. But my husband was absolutely 
modem. He was the first of the house to go through 
a college course and take his M.A. degree. His elder 
brother had died young, of drink, and had left no chil- 
dren. My husband did not drink and was not given 

1 Taking the dust of the feet is a formal offering of reverence 
and is done by lightly touching the feet of the revered one and 
then one’s own head with the same hand. The wife does not 
ordinarily do this to the husband. 


4 


THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


to dissipation. So foreign to the family was this 
abstinence, that to many it hardly seemed decent! 
Purity, they imagined, was only becoming in those on 
whom fortune had not smiled. It is the moon which 
has room for stains, not the stars. 

My husband’s parents had died long ago, and his 
old grandmother was mistress of the house. My 
husband was the apple of her eye, the jewel on 
her bosom. And so he never met with much difficulty 
in overstepping any of the ancient usages. When he 
brought in Miss Gilby, to teach me and be my com- 
panion, he stuck to his resolve in spite of the poison 
secreted by all the wagging tongues at home and 
outside. 

My husband had then just got through his B.A. 
examination and was reading for his M.A. degree; so 
he had to stay in Calcutta to attend college. He used 
to write to me almost every day, a few lines only, and 
simple words, but his bold, round handwriting would 
look up into my face, oh, so tenderly ! I kept his let- 
ters in a sandal-wood box and covered them every day 
with the flowers I gathered in the garden. 

At that time the Prince of the fairy tale had faded, 
like the moon in the morning light. I had the Prince 
of my real world enthroned in my heart. I was his 
queen. I had my seat by his side. But my real joy 
was, that my true place was at his feet. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


5 


Since then, I have been educated, and introduced to 
the modern age in its own language, and therefore 
these words that I write seem to blush with shame in 
their prose setting. Except for my acquaintance with 
this modern standard of life, I should know, quite 
naturally, that just as my being born a woman was 
not in my own hands, so the element of devotion in 
woman’s love is not like a hackneyed passage quoted 
from a romantic poem to be piously written down in 
roundhand in a school girl’s copy-book. 

But my husband would not give me any opportunity 
for worship. That was his greatness. They are cow- 
ards who claim absolute devotion from their wives as 
their right ; that is a humiliation for both. 

His love for me seemed to overflow my limits by its 
flood of wealth and service. But my necessity was 
more for giving than for receiving; for love is a vaga- 
bond, who can make his flowers bloom in the way-side 
dust, better than in the crystal jars kept in the drawing- 
room. 

My husband could not break completely with the 
old-time traditions which prevailed in our family. It 
was difficult, therefore, for us to meet at any hour of 
the day we pleased.^ I knew exactly the time that he 

^ It would not be reckoned good form for the husband to be 
continually going into the zenana, except at particular hours for 
meals or rest. 


6 


THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


could come to me, and therefore our meeting had all the 
care of loving preparation. It was like the rhyming 
of a poem; it had to come through the path of the 
metre. 

After finishing the day's work and taking my after- 
noon bath, I would do up my hair and renew my ver- 
milion mark and put on my sari, carefully crinkled; 
and then, bringing back my body and mind from all 
distractions of household duties, I would dedicate it 
at this special hour, with special ceremonies, to one 
individual. That time, each day, with him was short ; 
but it was infinite. 

My husband used to say, that man and wife are 
equal in love because of their equal claim on each 
other. 1 never argued the point with him, but my 
heart said that devotion never stands in the way of 
true equality; it only raises the level of the ground 
of meeting. Therefore the joy of the higher equality 
remains permanent ; it never slides down to the vulgar 
level of triviality. 

My beloved, it was worthy of you that you never 
expected worship from me. But if you had accepted 
it, you would have done me a real service. You 
showed your love by decorating me, by educating me, 
by giving me what I asked for, and what I did not. 
I have seen what depth of love there was in your eyes 
when you gazed at me. I have known the secret sigh 


BIMALA’S STORY 


7 


of pain you suppressed in your love for me. You 
loved my body as if it were a flower of paradise. You 
loved my whole nature as if it had been given you 
by some rare Providence. 

Such lavish devotion made me proud to think that 
the wealth was all my own which drove you to my 
gate. But vanity such as this only checks the flow of 
free surrender in a woman's love. When I sit on the 
queen's throne and claim homage, then the claim only 
goes on magnifying itself; it is never satisfied. Can 
there be any real happiness for a woman in merely 
feeling that she has power over a man? To surrender 
one's pride in devotion is woman's only salvation. 

It comes back to me to-day how, in the days of our 
happiness, the fires of envy sprung up all around us. 
That was only natural, for had I not stept into my 
good fortune by a mere chance, and without deserving 
it? But Providence does not allow a run of luck to 
last for ever, unless its debt of honour be fully paid, 
day by day, through many a long day, and thus made 
secure. God may grant us gifts, but the merit of 
being able to take and hold them must be our own. 
Alas for the boons that slip through unworthy hands ! 

My husband's grandmother and mother were both 
renowned for their beauty. And my widowed sister- 
in-law was also of a beauty rarely to be seen. When, 
in turn, fate left them desolate, the grandmother vowed 


8 


THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


she would not insist on having beauty for her remain- 
ing grandson when he married. Only the auspicious 
marks with which I was endowed gained me an entry 
into this family ; — otherwise, I had no claim to be here. 

In this house of luxury, but few of its ladies had 
received their meed of respect. They had, however, 
got used to the ways of the family, and managed to 
keep their heads above water, buoyed up by their dig- 
nity as Ranis of an ancient house, in spite of their 
daily tears being drowned in the foam of wine, and 
by the tinkle of the dancing girls’ anklets. Was the 
credit due to me that my husband did not touch liquor, 
nor squander his manhood in the markets of woman’s 
flesh ? What charm did I know to soothe the wild and 
wandering mind of men? It was my good luck, noth- 
ing else. For fate proved utterly callous to my sister- 
in-law. Her festivity died out, while yet the evening 
was early, leaving the light of her beauty shining in 
vain over empty halls, — ^burning and burning, with no 
accompanying music ! 

His sister-in-law affected a contempt for my hus- 
band’s modern notions. How absurd to keep the fam- 
ily ship, laden with all the weight of its time-honoured 
glory, sailing under the colours of his slip of a girl- 
wife alone ! Often have I felt the lash of scorn. ‘ A 
thief who had stolen a husband’s love ! ’ ‘A sham 
hidden in the shamelessness of her new-fangled 


BIMALA’S STORY 


9 


finery ! ’ The many-coloured garments of modem 
fashion with which my husband loved to adorn me 
roused jealous wrath. ‘ Is not she ashamed to make 
a show-window of herself, — and with her looks, too 1 * 

My husband was aware of all this, but his gentle- 
ness knew no bounds. He used to implore me to 
forgive her. 

I remember I once told him: ‘Women’s minds are 
so petty, so crooked!’ ‘Like the feet of Chinese 
women,’ he replied. ‘ Has not the pressure of society 
cramped them into pettiness and crookedness? They 
are but pawns of the fate which gambles with them. 
What responsibility have they of their own? ’ 

My sister-in-law never failed to get from my hus- 
band whatever she wanted. He did not stop to con- 
sider whether her requests were right or reasonable. 
But what exasperated me most was that she was not 
grateful for this. I had promised my husband that I 
would not talk back at her, but this set me raging all 
the more, inwardly. I used to feel that goodness has 
a limit, which, if passed, somehow seems to make men 
cowardly. Shall I tell the whole truth ? I have often 
wished that my husband had the manliness to be a 
little less good. 

My sister-in-law, the Bara Rani,^ was still young 

1 5 ara=Senior; C^ofa=Junior. In joint families of rank, 
though the widows remain entitled only to a life-interest in their 


lo THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

and had no pretensions to saintliness. Rather, her talk 
and jest and laugh inclined to be forward. The young 
maids with whom she surrounded herself were also 
impudent to a degree. But there was none to gainsay 
her, — for was not this the custom of the house? It 
seemed to me that my good fortune in having a stain- 
less husband was a special eyesore to her. He, how- 
ever, felt more the sorrow of her lot than the defects 
of her character. 

II 

My husband was very eager to take me out of 
purdah} 

One day I said to him : ‘ What do I want with the 
outside world ? ' 

‘ The outside world may want you,’ he replied. 

‘ If the outside world has got on so long without 
me, it may go on for some time longer. It need not 
pine to death for want of me.’ 

‘ Let it perish, for all I care ! That is not troubling 
me. I am thinking about myself.’ 

‘Oh, indeed. Tell me, what about yourself?’ 

husbands’ share, their rank remains to them according to senior- 
ity, and the titles ‘Senior’ and ‘Junior’ continue to distinguish 
the elder and younger branches, even though the junior branch 
be the one in power. 

^The seclusion of the zenana, and all the customs peculiar to 
it, are designated by the general term ‘Purdah,’ which means 
Screen. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


II 


My husband was silent, with a smile. 

I knew his way, and protested at once : ‘ No, no, you 
are not going to run away from me like that ! I want 
to have this out with you.* 

‘ Can one ever finish a subject with words? * 

‘ Do stop speaking in riddles. Tell me . . .’ 

‘ What I want is, that I should have you, and you 
should have me, more fully in the outside world. 
That is where we are still in debt to each other.* 

* Is anything wanting, then, in the love we have 
here at home ? * 

‘ Here you are wrapped up in me. You know 
neither what you have, nor what you want.* 

‘ I cannot bear to hear you talk like this.* 

‘ I would have you come into the heart of the outer 
world and meet reality. Merely going on with your 
household duties, living all your life in the world of 
household conventions and the drudgery of household 
tasks, — ^you were not made for that! If we meet, and 
recognise each other, in the real world, then only will 
our love be true.* 

‘ If there be any drawback here to our full recogni- 
tion of each other, then I have nothing to say. But 
as for myself, I feel no want.* 

‘ Well, even if the drawback is only on my side, why 
shouldn’t you help to remove it ? * 

Such discussions repeatedly occurred. One day he 


12 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


said : * The greedy man who is fond of his fish stew 
has no compunction in cutting up the fish according 
to his need. But the man who loves the fish wants to 
enjoy it in the water; and if that is impossible he 
waits on the bank; and even if he comes back home 
without a sight of it he has the consolation of knowing 
that the fish is all right. Perfect gain is the best of 
all; but if that is impossible, then the next best gain 
is perfect losing.’ 

I never liked the way my husband had of talking on 
this subject, but that is not the reason why I refused 
to leave the zenana. His grandmother was still alive. 
My husband had filled more than a hundred and twenty 
per cent of the house with the twentieth century, 
against her taste ; but she had borne it uncomplaining. 
She would have borne it, likewise, if the daughter-in- 
law^ of the Rajah’s house had left its seclusion. She 
was even prepared for this happening. But I did not 
consider it important enough to give her the pain of it. 
I have read in books that we are called ‘ caged birds.’ 
I cannot speak for others, but I had so much in this 
cage of mine that there was not room for it in the 
universe, — at least that is what I then felt. 

The grandmother, in her old age, was very fond 
of me. At the bottom of her fondness was the thought 

^ The prestige of the daughter-in-law is of the first importance 
in a Hindu household of rank. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


13 


that, with the conspiracy of favourable stars which 
attended me, I had been able to attract my husband’s 
love. Were not men naturally inclined to plunge 
downwards? None of the others, for all their beauty, 
had been able to prevent their husbands going headlong 
into the burning depths which consumed and destroyed 
them. She believed that I had been the means of 
extinguishing this fire, so deadly to the men of the 
family. So she kept me in the shelter of her bosom, 
and trembled if I was in the least bit unwell. 

His grandmother did not like the dresses and orna- 
ments my husband brought from European shops to 
deck me with. But she reflected : ' Men will have some 
absurd hobby or other, which is sure to be expensive. 
It is no use trying to check their extravagance ; one is 
glad enough if they stop short of ruin. If my Nikhil 
had not been busy dressing up his wife there is no 
knowing whom else he might have spent his money 
on!’ So whenever any new dress of mine arrived 
she used to send for my husband and make merry 
over it. 

Thus it came about that it was her taste which 
changed. The influence of the modern age fell so 
strongly upon her, that her evenings refused to pass if 
I did not tell her stories out of English books. 

After his grandmother’s death, my husband wanted 
me to go and live with him in Calcutta. But I could 


14 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


not bring myself to do that. Was not this our House, 
which she had kept under her sheltering care through 
all her trials and troubles? Would not a curse come 
upon me if I deserted it and went off to town? This 
was the thought that kept me back, as her empty seat 
reproachfully looked up at me. That noble lady had 
come into this house at the age of eight, and had died 
in her seventy-ninth year. She had not spent a happy 
life. Fate had hurled shaft after shaft at her breast, 
only to draw out more and more the imperishable 
spirit within. This great house was hallowed with 
her tears. What should I do in the dust of Calcutta, 
away from it? 

My husband’s idea was that this would be a good 
opportunity for leaving to my sister-in-law the con- 
solation of ruling over the household, giving our life, 
at the same time, more room to branch out in Calcutta. 
That is just where my difficulty came in. She had 
worried my life out, she ill brooked my husband’s hap- 
piness, and for this she was to be rewarded! And 
what of the day when we should have to come back 
here ? Should I then get back my seat at the head ? 

‘ What do you want with that seat ? ’ my husband 
would say. ‘ Are there not more precious things in 
life?’ 

Men never understand these things. They have 
their nests in the outside world; they little know the 


BIMALA’S STORY 


IS 

whole of what the household stands for. In these 
matters they ought to follow womanly guidance. — 
Such were my thoughts at that time. 

I felt the real point was, that one ought to stand up 
for one’s rights. To go away, and leave everything in 
the hands of the enemy, would be nothing short of 
owning defeat. 

But why did not my husband compel me to go with 
him to Calcutta? I know the reason. He did not 
use his power, just because he had it. 

Ill 

If one had to fill in, little by little, the gap between 
day and night, it would take an eternity to do it. But 
the sun rises and the darkness is dispelled, — a moment 
is sufficient to overcome an infinite distance. 

One day there came the new era of Swadeshi^ in ' 
Bengal ; but as to how it happened, we had no distinct 
vision. There was no gradual slope connecting the 
past with the present. For that reason, I imagine, the 
new epoch came in like a flood, breaking down the 
dykes and sweeping all our prudence and fear before 
it. We had no time even to think about, or under- 
stand, what had happened, or what was about to 
happen. 

iThe Nationalist movement, which began more as an eco- 
nomic than a political one, having as its main object the encour- 
agement of indigenous industries. — Tr, 


i6 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


My sight and my mind, my hopes and my desires, 
became red with the passion of this new age. Though, 
up to this time, the walls of the home — which was the 
ultimate world to my mind — remained unbroken, yet 
I stood looking over into the distance, and I heard a 
voice from the far horizon, whose meaning was not 
perfectly clear to me, but whose call went straight to 
my heart. 

From the time my husband had been a college stu- 
dent he had been trying to get the things required by 
our people produced in our own country. There are 
plenty of date trees in our district. He tried to invent 
an apparatus for extracting the juice and boiling it 
into sugar and treacle. I heard that it was a great 
success, only it extracted more money than juice. 
After a while he came to the conclusion that our 
attempts at reviving our industries were not succeed- 
ing for want of a bank of our own. He was, at the 
time, trying to teach me political economy. This alone 
would not have done much harm, but he also took it 
into his head to teach his countrymen ideas of thrift, 
so as to pave the way for a bank ; and then he actually 
started a small bank. Its high rate of interest, which 
made the villagers flock so enthusiastically to put in 
their money, ended by swamping the bank altogether. 

The old officers of the estate felt troubled and 
frightened. There was jubilation in the enemy's 


BIMALA’S STORY 


17 


camp. Of all the family, only my husband’s grand- 
mother remained unmoved. She would scold me, 
saying : ‘ Why are you all plaguing him so ? Is it the 
fate of the estate that is worrying you? How many 
times have I seen this estate in the hands of the court 
receiver! Are men like women? Men are born 
spendthrifts and only know how to waste. Look here, 
child, count yourself fortunate that your husband is 
not wasting himself as well!’ 

My husband’s list of charities was a long one. He 
would assist to the bitter end of utter failure any one 
who wanted to invent a new loom or rice-husking 
machine. But what annoyed me most was the way 
that Sandip Babu used to fleece him on the pretext of 
Swadeshi work. Whenever he wanted to start a news- 
paper, or travel about preaching the Cause, or take a 
change of air by the advice of his doctor, my husband 
would unquestioningly supply him with the money. 
This was over and above the regular living allowance 
which Sandip Babu also received from him. The 
strangest part of it was that my husband and Sandip 
Babu did not agree in their opinions. 

As soon as the Swadeshi storm reached my blood, 
I said to my husband : ‘ I must burn all my foreign 
clothes.’ 

‘ Why bum them? ’ said he. ‘ You need not wear 
them as long as you please.’ 


c 


1 8 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘As long as I please! Not in this life . . 

‘ Very well, do not wear them for the rest of your 
life, then. But why this bonfire business? ’ 

‘ Would you thwart me in my resolve? ’ 

‘ What I want to say is this : Why not try to build 
up something ? You should not waste even a tenth part 
of your energies in this destructive excitement.^ 

‘ Such excitement will give us the energy to build. ^ 
‘ That is as much as to say, that you cannot light 
the house unless you set fire to it.’ 

Then there came another trouble. When Miss 
Gilby first came to our house there was a great flutter, 
which afterwards calmed down -when they got used 
to her. Now the whole thing was stirred up afresh. 
I had never bothered myself before as to whether Miss 
Gilby was European or Indian, but I began to do so 
now. I said to my husband: ‘We must get rid of 
Miss Gilby.’ 

He kept silent. 

I talked to him wildly, and he went away sad at 
heart. 

After a fit of weeping, I felt in a more reasonable 
mood when we met at night. ‘ I cannot,’ my husband 
said, ‘ look upon Miss Gilby through a mist of ab- 
straction, just because she is English. Cannot you get 
over the barrier of her name after such a long acquaint- 
ance ? Cannot you realise that she loves you ? ’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


19 


I felt a little ashamed and replied with some sharp- 
ness : ' Let her remain. I am not over anxious to send 
her away.’ 

And Miss Gilby remained. 

But one day I was told that she had been insulted 
by a young fellow on her way to church. This was a 
boy whom we were supporting. My husband turned 
him out of the house. There was not a single soul, 
that day, who could forgive my husband for that act, — 
not even I. This time Miss Gilby left of her own 
accord. She shed tears when she came to say good- 
bye, but my mood would not melt. To slander the 
poor boy so, — and such a fine boy, too, who would 
forget his daily bath and food in his enthusiasm for 
Swadeshi. 

My husband escorted Miss Gilby to the railway sta- 
tion in his own carriage. I was sure he was going 
too far. When exaggerated accounts of the incident 
gave rise to a public scandal, which found its way to 
the newspapers, I felt he had been rightly served. 

I had often become anxious at my husband’s doings, 
but had never before been ashamed ; yet now I had to 
blush for him! I did not know exactly, nor did I 
care, what wrong poor Noren might, or might not, 
have done to Miss Gilby, but the idea of sitting in 
judgment on such a matter at such a time ! I should 
have refused to damp the spirit which prompted young 


20 THE HOME AND THE WORLD ^ 


Noren to defy the Englishwoman. I could not but 
look upon it as a sign of cowardice in my husband, 
that he should fail to understand this simple thing. 
And so I blushed for him. 

And yet it was not that my husband refused to 
support Swadeshi, or was in any way against the 
Cause. Only he had not been able whole-heartedly to 
accept the spirit of Bande Mataram} 

‘ I am willing,* he said, * to serve my country ; but 
my worship I reserve for Right which is far greater 
than my country. To worship my country as a god 
is to bring a curse upon it* 

1 Lit. : Hail Mother ; the opening words of a song by Bankim 
Chatterjee, the famous Bengali novelist. The song has now be- 
come the national anthem, and Bande Mataram the national cry, 
since the days of the Swadeshi movement. — Tr, 


CHAPTER II 


BIM ala's story 
IV 

This was the time when Sandip Babu with his follow- 
ers came to our neighbourhood to preach Swadeshi. 

There is to be a big meeting in our temple pavilion. 
We women are sitting there, on one side, behind a 
screen. Triumphant shouts of Bande Mataram come 
nearer: and to them I am thrilling through and 
through. Suddenly a stream of barefooted youths in 
turbans, clad in ascetic ochre, rushes into the quad- 
rangle, like a silt-reddened freshet into a dry river bed 
at the first burst of the rains. The whole place is 
filled with an immense crowd, through which Sandip 
Babu is borne, seated in a big chair hoisted on the 
shoulders of ten or twelve of the youths. 

Bande Mataram! Bande Mataram! Bande Ma- 
taram! It seems as though the skies would be rent 
and scattered into a thousand fragments. 

I had seen Sandip Babu's photograph before. There 
was something in his features which I did not quite 
like. Not that he was bad-looking, — far from it: he 
had a splendidly handsome face. Yet, I know not 


21 


22 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


why, it seemed to me, in spite of all its brilliance, that 
too much of base alloy had gone into its making. The 
light in his eyes somehow did not shine true. That 
was why I did not like it when my husband unques- 
tioningly gave in to all his demands. I could bear the 
waste of money; but it vexed me to think that he was 
imposing on my husband, taking advantage of friend- 
ship. His bearing was not that of an ascetic, nor 
even of a person of moderate means, but foppish all 
over. Love of comfort seemed to . . . any number 
of such reflections come back to me to-day, but let 
them be. 

When, however, Sandip Babu began to speak that 
afternoon, and the hearts of the crowd swayed and 
surged to his words, as though they would 
break all bounds, I saw him wonderfully transformed. 
Especially when his features were suddenly lit up by 
a shaft of light from the slowly setting sun, as it sunk 
below the roof-line of the pavilion, he seemed to me 
to be marked out by the gods as their messenger to 
mortal men and women. 

From beginning to end of his speech, each one of his 
utterances was a stormy outburst. There was no limit 
to the confidence of his assurance. I do not know how 
it happened, but I found I had impatiently pushed away 
the screen from before me and had fixed my gaze upon 
him. Yet there was none in that crowd who paid any 


BIMALA’S STORY 


23 

heed to my doings. Only once, I noticed, his eyes, like 
stars in fateful Orion, flashed full on my face. 

I was utterly unconscious of myself. I was no 
longer the lady of the Rajah’s house, but the sole 
representative of Bengal’s womanhood. And he was 
the champion of Bengal. As the sky had shed its 
light over him, so he must receive the consecration of 
a woman’s benediction. . . . 

It seemed clear to me that, since he had caught sight 
of me, the fire in his words had flamed up more fiercely. 
Indra’s ^ steed refused to be reined in, and there came 
the roar of thunder and the flash of lightning. I said 
within myself that his language had caught fire from 
my eyes; for we women are not only the deities of the 
household fire, but the flame of the soul itself. 

I returned home that evening radiant with a new 
pride and joy. The storm within me had shifted my 
whole being from one centre to another. Like the 
Greek maidens of old, I fain would cut off my long, 
resplendent tresses to make a bow-string for my hero. 
Had my outward ornaments been connected with my 
inner feelings, then my necklet, my armlets, my brace- 
lets, would all have burst their bonds and flung them- 
selves over that assembly like a shower of meteors. 
Only some personal sacrifice, I felt, could help me to 
bear the tumult of my exaltation. 

^The Jupiter Pluvius of Hindu Mythology. 


24 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


When my husband came home later, I was trembling 
lest he should utter a sound out of tune with the tri- 
umphant paean which was still ringing in my ears, lest 
his fanaticism for truth should lead him to express 
disapproval of anything that had been said that after- 
noon. For then I should have openly defied and 
humiliated him. But he did not say a word, . . . 
which I did not like either. 

He should have said : ‘ Sandip has brought me to 
my senses. I now realise how mistaken I have been 
all this time.’ 

I somehow felt that he was spitefully silent, that 
he obstinately refused to be enthusiastic. I asked how 
long Sandip Babu was going to be with us. 

‘ He is off to Rangpur early to-morrow morning,’ 
said my husband. 

* Must it be to-morrow ? ’ 

‘ Yes, he is already engaged to speak there.’ 

I was silent for a while and then asked again, ‘ Could 
he not possibly stay a day longer ? ’ 

‘ That may hardly be possible, but why ? ’ 

' I want to invite him to dinner and attend on him 
myself.’ 

My husband was surprised. He had often en- 
treated me to be present when he had particular friends 
to dinner, but I had never let myself be persuaded. 
He gazed at me curiously, in silence, with a look I did 
not quite understand. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


25 

I was suddenly overcome with a sense of shame. 
‘ No, no,’ I exclaimed, * that would never do ! ’ 

‘ Why not ! ’ said he. ‘ I will ask him myself, and 
if it is at all possible he will surely stay on for to- 
morrow.’ 

It turned out to be quite possible. 

I will tell the exact truth. That day I reproached 
my Creator because he had not made me surpassingly 
beautiful, — not to steal any heart away, but because 
beauty is glory. In this great day the men of the 
country should realise its goddess in its womanhood. 
But, alas, the eyes of men fail to discern the goddess, 
if outward beauty be lacking. Would Sandip Babu 
find the Shakti of the Motherland manifest in me? 
Or would he simply take me to be an ordinary, domes- 
tic woman ? 

That morning I scented my flowing hair and tied 
it in a loose knot, bound by a cunningly intertwined 
red silk ribbon. Dinner, you see, was to be served 
at mid-day, and there was no time to dry my hair after 
my bath and do it up plaited in the ordinary way. I 
put on a gold-bordered white sari, and my short-sleeve 
muslin jacket was also gold-bordered. 

I felt that there was a certain restraint about my 
costume and that nothing could well have been simpler. 
But my sister-in-law, who happened to be passing by, 
stopped dead before me, surveyed me from head to 


26 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


foot and with compressed lips smiled a meaning smile. 
When I asked her the reason, ‘ I am admiring your 
get-up ! ^ she said. 

' What is there so entertaining about it ? ’ I enquired, 
considerably annoyed. 

‘ It’s superb,’ she said. ‘ I was only thinking that 
one of those low-necked English bodices would have 
made it perfect.’ Not only her mouth and eyes, but 
her whole body seemed to ripple with suppressed 
laughter as she left the room. 

I was very, very angry, and wanted to change every- 
thing and put on my everyday clothes. But I cannot 
tell exactly why I could not carry out my impulse. 
Women are the ornaments of society, — thus I rea- 
soned with myself, — and my husband would never like 
it, if I appeared before Sandip Babu unworthily clad. 

My idea had been to make my appearance after they 
had sat down to dinner. In the bustle of looking after 
the serving the first awkwardness would have passed 
off. But dinner was not ready in time, and it was 
getting late. Meanwhile my husband had sent for me 
to introduce the guest. 

I was feeling horribly shy about looking Sandip 
Babu in the face. However, I managed to recover 
myself enough to say : ‘ I am so sorry dinner is getting 
late.’ 

He boldly came and sat right beside me as he replied : 


BIMALA’S STORY 


27 


‘ I get a dinner of some kind every day, but the God- 
dess of Plenty keeps behind the scenes. Now that the 
goddess herself has appeared, it matters little if the 
dinner lags behind.’ 

He was just as emphatic in his manners as he was 
in his public speaking. He had no hesitation and 
seemed to be accustomed to occupy, unchallenged, his 
chosen seat. He claimed the right to intimacy so 
confidently, that the blame would seem to belong to 
those who should dispute it. 

I was in terror lest Sandip Babu should take me for 
a shrinking, old-fashioned bundle of inanity. But, 
for the life of me, I could not sparkle in repartees such 
as might charm or dazzle him. What could have pos- 
sessed me, I angrily wondered, to appear before him 
in such an absurd way ? 

I was about to retire when dinner was over, but 
Sandip Babu, as bold as ever, placed himself in my 
way. 

‘ You must not,’ he said, ‘ think me greedy. It was 
not the dinner that kept me staying on, it was your 
invitation. If you were to run away now, that would 
not be playing fair with your guest.’ 

If he had not said these words with a careless ease, 
they would have been out of tune. But, after all, he 
was such a great friend of my husband that I wlas 
like his sister. 


28 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


While I was struggling to climb up this high wave 
of intimacy, my husband came to the rescue, saying: 
' Why not come back to us after you have taken your 
dinner ? ’ 

‘ But you must give your word,’ said Sandip Babu, 
‘ before we let you off.’ 

* I will come,’ said I, with a slight smile. 

‘ Let me tell you,’ continued Sandip Babu, ‘ why I 
cannot trust you. Nikhil has been married these nine 
years, and all this while you have eluded me. If you 
do this again for another nine years, we shall never 
meet again.’ 

I took up the spirit of his remark as I dropped 
my voice to reply : ‘ Why even then should we not 
meet ? ’ 

* My horoscope tells me I am to die early. None 
of my forefathers have survived their thirtieth year. 
I am now twenty-seven.’ 

He knew this would go home. This time there 
must have been a shade of concern in my low voice as 
I said : ‘ The blessings of the whole country are sure 
to avert the evil influence of the stars.’ 

‘ Then the blessings of the country must be voiced 
by its goddess. This is the reason for my anxiety that 
you should return, so that my talisman may begin to 
work from to-day.’ 

Sandip Babu had such a way of taking things by 


BIMALA^S STORY 


29 

storm that I got no opportunity of resenting what I 
never should have permitted in another. 

‘ So/ he concluded with a laugh. ‘ I am going to 
hold this husband of yours as a hostage till you come 
back.’ 

As I was coming away, he exclaimed: ‘May I 
trouble you for a trifle ? ’ 

I started and turned round. 

‘ Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘ It’s merely a glass of 
water. You might have noticed that I did not drink 
any water with my dinner. I take it a little later.’ 

Upon this I had to make a show of interest and 
ask him the reason. He began to give the history of 
his dyspepsia. I was told how he had been a martyr 
to it for seven months, and how, after the usual course 
of nuisances, which included different allopathic and 
homeopathic misadventures, he had obtained the most 
wonderful results by indigenous methods. 

‘ Do you know,’ he added, with a smile, ‘ God has 
built even my infirmities in such a manner that they 
yield only under the bombardment of Swadeshi pills.’ 

My husband, at this, broke his silence. ‘ You must 
confess,’ said he, ‘ that you have as immense an 
attraction for foreign medicine as the earth has for 
meteors. You have three shelves in your sitting-room 
full of . . 

Sandip Babu broke in : ‘Do you know what they 


30 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


are? They are the punitive police. They come, not 
because they are wanted, but because they are imposed 
on us by the rule of this modern age, exacting fines and 
inflicting injuries.’ 

My husband could not bear exaggerations, and I 
could see he disliked this. But all ornaments are exag- 
gerations. They are not made by God, but by man. 
Once I remember in defence of some untruth of mine 
I said to my husband : ‘ Only the trees and beasts and 
birds tell unmitigated truths, because these poor things 
have not the power to invent. In this men show their 
superiority to the lower creatures, and women beat 
even men. Neither is a profusion of ornament unbe- 
coming for a woman, nor a profusion of untruth.’ 

As I came out into the passage leading to the zenana 
I found my sister-in-law, standing near a window over- 
looking the reception rooms, peeping through the Vene- 
tian shutter. 

‘ You here? ’ I asked in surprise. 

‘ Eavesdropping ! ’ she replied. 

V 

When I returned, Sandip Babu was tenderly apolo- 
getic. ‘ I am afraid we have spoilt your appetite,’ he 
said. 

I felt greatly ashamed. Indeed, I had been too in- 


BIMALA’S STORY 


31 


decently quick over my dinner. With a little calcula- 
tion, it would become quite evident that my non-eating 
had surpassed the eating. But I had no idea that any- 
one could have been deliberately calculating. 

I suppose Sandip Babu detected my feeling of shame, 
which only augmented it. ‘ I was sure,’ he said, ‘ that 
you had the impulse of the wild deer to run away, but 
it is a great boon that you took the trouble to keep your 
promise with me.’ 

I could not think of any suitable reply and so I sat 
down, blushing and uncomfortable, at one end of the 
sofa. The vision that I had of myself, as the Shakti 
of Womanhood, incarnate, crowning Sandip Babu 
simply with my presence, majestic and unashamed, 
failed me altogether. 

Sandip Babu deliberately started a discussion with 
my husband. He knew that his keen wit flashed to the 
best effect in an argument. I have often since ob- 
served, that he never lost an opportunity for a passage 
at arms whenever I happened to be present. 

He was familiar with my husband’s views on the 
cult of Bande Mataram, and began in a provoking way : 
‘ So you do not allow that there is room for an appeal 
to the imagination in patriotic work ? ’ 

‘ It has its place, Sandip, I admit, but I do not be- 
lieve in giving it the whole place. I would know my 
country in its frank reality, and for this I am both 


32 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

afraid and ashamed to make use of hypnotic texts of 
patriotism.’ 

‘ What you call hypnotic texts I call truth. I truly 
believe my country to be my God. I worship Human- 
ity. God manifests Himself both in man and in his 
country.’ 

‘ If that is what you really believe, there should be 
no difference for you between man and man, and so 
between country and country.’ 

‘ Quite true. But my powers are limited, so my 
worship of Humanity is continued in the worship of 
my country.’ 

‘ I have nothing against your worship as such, but 
how is it you propose to conduct your worship of God 
by hating other countries in which He is equally man- 
ifest? ’ 

‘ Hate is also an adjunct of worship. Arjuna won 
Mahadeva’s favour by wrestling with him. God will 
be with us in the end, if we are prepared to give Him 
battle.’ 

‘ If that be so, then those who are serving and those 
who are harming the country are both His devotees. 
Why, then, trouble to preach patriotism ? ’ 

‘ In the case of one’s own country, it is different. 
There the heart clearly demands worship.’ 

‘ If you push the same argument further you can 
say that since God is manifested in us, our self has to 


BIMALA^S STORY 


33 

be worshipped before all else; because our natural in- 
stinct claims it/ 

‘ Look here, Nikhil, this is all merely dry logic. Can’t 
you recognise that there is such a thing as feeling? ’ 

‘ I tell you the truth, Sandip,’ my husband replied. 
‘ It is my feelings that are outraged, whenever you try 
to pass off injustice as a duty, and unrighteousness as 
a moral ideal. The fact, that I am incapable of steal- 
ing, is not due to my possessing logical faculties, but 
to my having some feeling of respect for myself and 
love for ideals.’ 

I was raging inwardly. At last I could keep silent 
no longer. ‘ Is not the history of every country,’ I 
cried, ‘ whether England, France, Germany, or Russia, 
the history of stealing for the sake of one’s own coun- 
try?’ 

‘They have to answer for these thefts; they are 
doing so even now; their history is not yet ended.’ 

‘ At any rate,’ interposed Sandip Babu, ‘ why should 
we not follow suit ? Let us first fill our country’s cof- 
fers with stolen goods and then take centuries, like 
these other countries, to answer for them, if we must. 
But, I ask you, where do you find this “ answering ” 
in history ? ’ 

‘ When Rome was answering for her sin no one 
knew it. All that time, there was apparently no limit 
to her prosperity. But do you not see one thing : how 


34 the home and THE WORLD 

these political bags of theirs are bursting with lies 
and treacheries, breaking their backs under their 
weight ? ’ 

Never before had I had any opportunity of being 
present at a discussion between my husband and his 
men friends. Whenever he argued with me I could 
feel his reluctance to push me into a corner. This arose 
out of the very love he bore me. To-day for the first 
time I saw his fencer’s skill in debate. 

Nevertheless, my heart refused to accept my hus- 
band’s position. I was struggling to find some answer, 
but it would not come. When the word ‘righteousness ’ 
comes into an argument, it sounds ugly to say that a 
thing can be too good to be useful. 

All of a sudden Sandip Babu turned to me with the 
question : ‘ What do you say to this ? ’ 

‘ I do not care about fine distinctions,’ I broke out. 
^ I will tell you broadly what I feel. I am only human. 
I am covetous. I would have good things for my coun- 
try. If I am obliged, I would snatch them and filch 
them. I have anger. I would be angry for my coun- 
try’s sake. If necessary, I would smite and slay to 
avenge her insults. I have my desire to be fascinated, 
and fascination must be supplied to me in bodily shape 
by my country. She must have some visible symbol 
casting its spell upon my mind. I would make my 
country a Person, and call her Mother, Goddess, 


BIMALA’S STORY 


35 

Durga, — for whom I would redden the earth with 
sacrificial offerings. I am human, not divine.’ 

Sandip Babu leapt to his feet with uplifted arms and 
shouted ' Hurrah ! ’ — The next moment he corrected 
himself and cried : ' Bande Mataram/ 

A shadow of pain passed over the face of my hus- 
band. He said to me in a very gentle voice : ‘ Neither 
am I divine : I am human. And therefore I dare not 
permit the evil which is in me to be exaggerated into 
an image of my country, — never, never! 

Sandip Babu cried out : ‘ See, Nikhil, how in the 

heart of a woman Truth takes flesh and blood. Woman 
knows how to be cruel: her virulence is like a blind 
storm. It is beautifully fearful. In man it is ugly, 
because it harbours in its centre the gnawing worms of 
reason and thought. I tell you, Nikhil, it is our women 
who will save the country. This is not the time for 
nice scruples. We must be unswervingly, unreason- 
ingly brutal. We must sin. We must give our women 
red sandal paste with which to anoint and enthrone 
our sin. Don’t you remember what the poet says : 

* Come, Sin, O beautiful Sin, 

Let thy stinging red kisses pour down fiery red wine into our 
blood. 

Sound the trumpet of imperious evil 

And cross our forehead with the wreath of exulting lawlessness, 
O Deity of Desecration, 

Smear our breasts with the blackest mud of disrepute, 
unashamed. 


36 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


Down with that righteousness, which cannot smilingly 
bring rack and ruin.’ 

When Sandip Babu, standing with his head high, 
insulted at a moment’s impulse all that men have cher- 
ished as their highest, in all countries and in all times, a 
shiver went right through my body. 

But, with a stamp of his foot, he continued his decla- 
mation : ‘ I can see that you are that beautiful spirit of 
fire, which burns the home to ashes and lights up the 
larger world with its flame. Give to us the indomitable 
courage to go to the bottom of Ruin itself. Impart 
grace to all that is baneful.’ 

It was not clear to whom Sandip Babu addressed his 
last appeal. It might have been She whom he wor- 
shipped with his Bande Mataram. It might have been 
the Womanhood of his country. Or it might have been 
its representative, the woman before him. He would 
have gone further in the same strain, but my husband 
suddenly rose from his seat and touched him lightly on 
the shoulder saying : ‘ Sandip, Chandranath Babu is 
here.’ 

I started and turned round, to find an aged gentle- 
man at the door, calm and dignified, in doubt as to 
whether he should come in or retire. His face was 
touched with a gentle light like that of the setting 
sun. 

My husband came up to me and whispered : * This is 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


37 

my master, of whom I have so often told you. Make 
your obeisance to him.’ 

I bent reverently and took the dust of his feet. He 
gave me his blessing saying : ‘ May God protect you 
always, my little mother.’ 

I was sorely in need of such a blessing at that 
moment. 

NIKHIL^S STORY 
I 

One day I had the faith to believe that I should be 
able to bear whatever came from my God. I never had 
the trial. Now I think it has come. 

I used to test my strength of mind by imagining all 
kinds of evil which might happen to me — poverty, 
imprisonment, dishonour, death — even Bimala’s. And 
when I said to myself that I should be able to 
receive these with firmness, I am sure I did not exag- 
gerate. Only I could never even imagine one thing, 
and to-day it is that of which I am thinking, and won- 
dering whether I can really bear it. There is a thorn 
somewhere pricking in my heart, constantly giving me 
pain while I am about my daily work. It seems to per- 
sist even when I am asleep. The very moment I wake 
up in the morning, I find that the bloom has gone from 
the face of the sky. What is it? What has happened? 

My mind has become so sensitive, that even my past 
life, which came to me in the disguise of happiness. 


38 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


seems to wring my very heart with its falsehood ; and 
the shame and sorrow which are coming close to me are 
losing their cover of privacy, all the more because they 
try to veil their faces. My heart has become all eyes. 
The things that should not be seen, the things I do not 
want to see, — these I must see. 

The day has come at last when my ill-starred life has 
to reveal its destitution in a long-drawn series of ex- 
posures. This penury, all unexpected, has taken its 
seat in the heart where plenitude seemed to reign. The 
fees which I paid to delusion for just nine years of my 
youth have now to be returned with interest to Truth 
till the end of my days. 

What is the use of straining to keep up my pride? 
What harm if I confess that I have something lacking 
in me? Possibly it is that unreasoning forcefulness 
which women love to find in men. But is strength a 
mere display of muscularity? Must strength have no 
scruples in treading the weak underfoot? 

But why all these arguments? Worthiness cannot 
be earned merely by disputing about it. And I am un- 
worthy, unworthy, unworthy. 

What if I am unworthy? The true value of love is 
this, that it can ever bless the unworthy with its own 
prodigality. For the worthy there are many rewards 
on God’s earth, but God has specially reserved love for 
the unworthy. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


39 


Up till now Bimala was my home-made Bimala, the 
product of the confined space and the daily routine of 
small duties. Did the love which I received from her, 
I asked myself, come from the deep spring of her 
heart, or was it merely like the daily provision of pipe 
water pumped up by the municipal steam-engine of 
society. 

I longed to find Bimala blossoming fully in all her 
truth and power. But the thing I forgot to calculate 
was, that one must give up all claims based on conven- 
tional rights, if one would find a person freely revealed 
in truth. 

Why did I fail to think of this? Was it because of 
the husband’s pride of possession over his wife? No. 
It was because I placed the fullest trust upon love. I 
was vain enough to think that I had the power in me to 
bear the sight of truth in its awful nakedness. It was 
tempting Providence, but still I clung to my proud 
determination to come out victorious in the trial. 

Bimala had failed to understand me in one thing. 
She could not fully realise that I held as weakness all 
imposition of force. Only the weak dare not be just. 
They shirk their responsibility of fairness and try 
quickly to get at results through the short-cuts of in- 
justice. Bimala has no patience with patience. She 
loves to find in men the turbulent, the angry, the un- 
just. Her respect must have its element of fear. 


40 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I had hoped that when Bimala found herself free in 
the outer world she would be rescued from her infatu- 
ation for tyranny. But now I feel sure that this in- 
fatuation is deep down in her nature. Her love is for 
the boisterous. From the tip of her tongue to the pit 
of her stomach she must tingle with red pepper in 
order to enjoy the simple fare of life. But my deter- 
mination was, never to do my duty with frantic im- 
petuosity, helped on by the fiery liquor of excitement. 
I know Bimala finds it difficult to respect me for this, 
taking my scruples for feebleness, — and she is quite 
angry with me because I am not running amuck crying 
Bande Mataram, 

For the matter of that, I have become unpopular 
with all my countrymen because I have not joined them 
in their carousals. They are certain that either I have 
a longing for some title, or else that I am afraid of the 
police. The police on their side suspect me of har- 
bouring some hidden design and protesting too much 
in my mildness. 

What I really feel is this, that those who cannot find 
food for their enthusiasm in a knowledge of their 
country as it actually is, or those who cannot love men 
just because they are men, — who needs must shout and 
deify their country in order to keep up their excite- 
ment, — these love excitement more than their country. 

To try to give our infatuation a higher place than 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


41 


Truth is a sign of inherent slavishness. Where our 
minds are free we find ourselves lost. Our moribund 
vitality must have for its rider either some fantasy, or 
someone in authority, or a sanction from the pundits, 
in order to make it move. So long as we are imper- 
vious to truth and have to be moved by some hypnotic 
stimulus, we must know that we lack the capacity for 
self-government. Whatever may be our condition, we 
shall either need some imaginary ghost or some actual 
medicine-man to terrorise over us. 

The other day when Sandip accused me of lack of 
imagination, saying that this prevented me from realis- 
ing my country in a visible image, Bimala agreed with 
him. I did not say anything in my defence, because to 
win in argument does not lead to happiness. Her dif- 
ference of opinion is not due to any inequality of in- 
telligence, but rather to dissimilarity of nature. 

They accuse me of being unimaginative, — that is, 
according to them, I may have oil in my lamp, but no 
flame. Now this is exactly the accusation which I 
bring against them. I would say to them : ‘ You are 
dark, even as the flints are. You must come to violent 
conflicts and make a noise in order to produce your 
sparks. But their disconnected flashes merely assist 
your pride, and not your clear vision.’ 

I have been noticing for some time that there is a 
gross cupidity about Sandip. His fleshly feelings make 


42 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


him harbour delusions about his religion and impel him 
into a tyrannical attitude in his patriotism. His intel- 
lect is keen, but his nature is coarse, and so he glorifies 
his selfish lusts under high-sounding names. The cheap 
consolations of hatred are as urgently necessary for 
him as the satisfaction of his appetites. Bimala has 
often warned me, in the old days, of his hankering after 
money. I understood this, but I could not bring my- 
self to haggle with Sandip. I felt ashamed even to own 
to myself that he was trying to take advantage of me. 

It will, however, be difficult to explain to Bimala to- 
day that Sandip’s love of country is but a different 
phase of his covetous self-love. Bimala’s hero-worship 
of Sandip makes me hesitate all the more to talk to her 
about him, lest some touch of jealousy may lead me 
unwittingly into exaggeration. It may be that the pain 
at my heart is already making me see a distorted pic- 
ture of Sandip. And yet it is better perhaps to speak 
out than to keep my feelings gnawing within me. 

II 

I have known my master these thirty years. Neither 
calumny, nor disaster, nor death itself has any terrors 
for him. Nothing could have saved me, born as I was 
into the traditions of this family of ours, but that he 
has established his own life in the centre of mine, with 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


43 

its peace and truth and spiritual vision, thus making it 
possible for me to realise goodness in its truth. 

My master came to me that day and said : ‘ Is it 
necessary to detain Sandip here any longer ? ’ 

His nature was so sensitive to all omens of evil that 
he had at once understood. He was not easily moved, 
but that day he felt the dark shadow of trouble ahead. 
Do I not know how well he loves me? 

At tea-time I said to Sandip : ‘ I have just had a 
letter from Rangpur. They are complaining that I am 
selfishly detaining you. When will you be going there T 

Bimala was pouring out the tea. Her face fell at 
once. She threw just one enquiring glance at Sandip. 

‘ I have been thinking,’ said Sandip, ‘ that this wan- 
dering up and down means a tremendous waste of 
energy. I feel that if I could work from a centre I 
could achieve more permanent results.’ 

With this he looked up at Bimala and asked : ‘ Do 
you not think so too ? ’ 

Bimala hesitated for a reply and then said : ‘ Both 
ways seem good, — to do the work from a centre, as 
well as by travelling about. That in which you find 
greater satisfaction is the way for you.’ 

‘ Then let me speak out my mind,’ said Sandip. ‘ I 
have never yet found any one source of inspiration 
suffice me for good. That is why I have been con- 
stantly moving about, rousing enthusiasm in the people, 


44 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


from which in turn I draw my own store of energy. 
To-day you have given me the message of my country. 
Such fire I have never beheld in any man. I shall be 
able to spread the fire of enthusiasm in my country by 
borrowing it from you. No, do not be ashamed. You 
are far above all modesty and diffidence. You are the 
Queen Bee of our hive, and we the workers shall rally 
around you. You shall be our centre, our inspiration.' 

Bimala flushed all over with bashful pride and her 
hand shook as she went on pouring out the tea. 

Another day my master came to me and said : ‘ Why 
don’t you two go up to Darjeeling for a change? You 
are not looking well. Have you been getting enough 
sleep ? ’ 

I asked Bimala in the evening whether she would 
care to have a trip to the Hills. I knew she had a great 
longing to see the Himalayas. But she refused. . . . 
The country’s Cause, I suppose! 

I must not lose my faith : I shall wait. The passage 
from the narrow to the larger world is stormy. When 
she is familiar with this freedom, then I shall know 
where my place is. If I discover that I do not fit in 
with the arrangement of the outer world, then I shall 
not quarrel with my fate, but silently take my leave. 
. . . Use force? But for what? Can force prevail 
against Truth? 


SANDIP’S STORY 


45 


SANDIP'S STORY 
I 

The impotent man says : ‘ That which has come to 
my share is mine/ And the weak man assents. But 
the lesson of the whole world is : ‘ That is really mine 
which I can snatch away.’ My country does not be- 
come mine simply because it is the country of my birth. 
It becomes mine on the day when I am able to win it 
by force. 

Every man has a natural right to possess, and there- 
fore greed is natural. It is not in the wisdom of nature 
that we should be content to be deprived. What my 
mind covets, my surroundings must supply. This is 
the only true understanding between our inner and 
outer nature in this world. Let moral ideals remain 
merely for those poor anaemic creatures of starved 
desire whose grasp is weak. Those who can desire 
with all their soul and enjoy with all their heart, those 
who have no hesitation or scruple, it is they who are 
the anointed of Providence. Nature spreads out her 
richest and loveliest treasures for their benefit. They 
swim across streams, leap over walls, kick open doors, 
to help themselves to whatever is worth taking. In 
such a getting one can rejoice; such wrestling as this 
gives value to the thing taken. 

Nature surrenders herself, but only to the robber. 


46 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

For she delights in this forceful desire, this forceful 
abduction. And so she does not put the garland of her 
acceptance round the lean, scraggy neck of the ascetic. 
The music of the wedding march is struck. The time 
of the wedding I must not let pass. My heart therefore 
is eager. For, who is the bridegroom? It is I. The 
bridegroom’s place belongs to him who, torch in hand, 
can come in time. The bridegroom in Nature’s wed- 
ding hall comes unexpected and uninvited. 

Ashamed? No, I am never ashamed! I ask for 
whatever I want, and I do not always wait to ask before 
I take it. Those who are deprived by their own diffi- 
dence dignify their privation by the name of modesty. 
The world into which we are born is the world of 
reality. When a man goes away from the market of 
real things with empty hands and empty stomach, 
merely filling his bag with big sounding words, I won- 
der why he ever came into this hard world at all. Did 
these men get their appointment from the epicures of 
the religious world, to play set tunes on sweet, pious 
texts in that pleasure garden where blossom airy noth- 
ings? I neither affect those tunes nor do I find any 
sustenance in those blossoms. 

What I desire, I desire positively, superlatively. I 
want to knead it with both my hands and both my feet ; 
I want to smear it all over my body ; I want to gorge 
myself with it to the full. The scrannel pipes of those 


SANDIP’S STORY 


47 


who have worn themselves out by their moral fastings, 
till they have become flat and pale like starved vermin 
infesting a long deserted bed, will never reach my ear. 

I would conceal nothing, because that would be 
cowardly. But if I cannot bring myself to conceal 
when concealment is needful, that also is cowardly. 
Because you have your greed, you build your walls. 
Because I have my greed, I break through them. You 
use your power : I use my craft. These are the real- 
ities of life. On these depend kingdoms and empires 
and all the great enterprises of men. 

As for those avatars who come down from their par- 
adise to talk to us in some holy jargon — their words 
are not real. Therefore, in spite of all the applause 
they get, these sayings of theirs only find a place in the 
hiding corners of the weak. They are despised by 
those who are strong, the rulers of the world. Those 
who have had the courage to see this have won success, 
while those poor wretches who are dragged one way by 
nature and the other way by these avatars, they set one 
foot in the boat of the real and the other in the boat of 
the unreal, and thus are in a pitiable plight, neither able 
to advance nor to keep their place. 

There are many men who seem to have been born 
only with an obsession to die. Possibly there is a 
beauty, like that of a sunset, in this lingering death in 
life which seems to fascinate them. Nikhil lives this 


48 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


kind of life, if life it may be called. Years ago, I had a 
great argument with him on this point. 

‘ It is true,’ he said, ^ that you cannot get anything 
except by force. But then what is this force? And 
then also, what is this getting ? The strength I believe 
in is the strength of renouncing.’ 

‘ So you,’ I exclaimed, * are infatuated with the glory 
of bankruptcy.’ 

‘ Just as desperately as the chick is infatuated about 
the bankruptcy of its shell,’ he replied. ‘ The shell is 
real enough, yet it is given up in exchange for intan- 
gible light and air. A sorry exchange, I suppose you 
would call it ? ’ 

When once Nikhil gets on to metaphor, there is no 
hope of making him see that he is merely dealing with 
words, not with realities. Well, well, let him be happy 
with his metaphors. We are the flesh-eaters of the 
world ; we have teeth and nails ; we pursue and grab and 
tear. We are not satisfied with chewing in the evening 
the cud of the grass we have eaten in the morning. Any- 
how, we cannot allow your metaphor-mongers to bar 
the door to our sustenance. In that case we shall 
simply steal or rob, for we must live. 

People will say that I am starting some novel theory, 
just because those who are moving in this world are 
in the habit of talking differently though they are really 
acting up to it all the time. Therefore they fail to 


SANDIP^S STORY 


49 


understand, as I do, that this is the only working moral 
principle. In point of fact, I know that my idea is not 
an empty theory at all, for it has been proved in prac- 
tical life. I have found that my way always wins over 
the hearts of women, who are creatures of this world 
of reality and do not roam about in cloud-land, as men 
do, in idea-filled balloons. 

Women find in my features, my manner, my gait, 
my speech, a masterful passion, — not a passion dried 
thin with the heat of asceticism, not a passion with its 
face turned back at every step in doubt and debate, but 
a full-blooded passion. It roars and rolls on, like a 
flood, with the cry : ‘ I want, I want, I want/ Women 
feel, in their own heart of hearts, that this indomitable 
passion is the life-blood of the world, acknowledging 
no law but itself, and therefore victorious. For this 
reason they have so often abandoned themselves to be 
swept away on the flood- tide of my passion, recking 
naught as to whether it takes them to life or to death. 
This power which wins these women is the power of 
mighty men, the power which wins the world of 
reality. 

Those who imagine the greater desirability of 
another world merely shift their desires from the 
earth to the skies. It remains to be seen how 
high their gushing fountain will play, and for how 
long. But this much is certain: women were not 


50 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

created for these pale creatures, — these lotus-eaters of 
idealism. 

‘ Affinity ! ' When it suited my need, I have often 
said that God has created special pairs of men and 
women, and that the union of such is the only legiti- 
mate union, higher than all unions made by law. The 
reason of it is, that though man wants to follow nature, 
he can find no pleasure in it unless he screens himself 
with some phrase, — and that is why this world is so 
overflowing with lies. 

‘ Affinity I ’ Why should there be only one? There 
may be affinity with thousands. It was never in my 
agreement with nature that I should overlook all my 
innumerable affinities for the sake of only one. I have 
discovered many in my own life up to now, yet that 
has not closed the door to one more, — and that one is 
clearly visible to my eyes. She has also discovered her 
own affinity to me. 

And then ? 

Then, if I do not win I am a coward. 


CHAPTER III 
bimala's story 

VI 

I WONDER what could have happened to my feeling of 
shame. The fact is, I had no time to think about my- 
self. My days and nights were passing in a whirl, like 
an eddy with myself in the centre. No gap was left 
for hesitation or delicacy to enter. 

One day my sister-in-law remarked to my husband : 
‘ Up to now the women of this house have been kept 
weeping. Here comes the men’s turn. 

‘ We must see that they do not miss it,’ she contin- 
ued, turning to me. ‘ I see you are out for the fray, 
Chota^ Rani ! Hurl your shafts straight at their hearts.’ 

Her keen eyes looked me up and down. Not one of 
the colours into which my toilet, my dress, my manners, 
my speech, had blossomed out had escaped her. I am 
ashamed to speak of it to-day, but I felt no shame then. 
Something within me was at work of which I was not 
even conscious. I used to overdress, it is true, but more 
like an automaton, with no particular design. No doubt 

^ Bimala, the younger brother’s wife, was the Chota or Junior 
Rani. 


52 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I knew which effort of mine would prove specially 
pleasing to Sandip Babu, but that required no intuition, 
for he would discuss it openly before all of them. 

One day he said to my husband : ‘ Do you know, 
Nikhil, when I first saw our Queen Bee, she was sitting 
there so demurely in her gold-bordered sari. Her eyes 
were gazing enquiringly into space, like stars which 
had lost their way, just as if she had been for ages 
standing on the edge of some darkness, looking out for 
something unknown. But when I saw her, I felt a 
quiver run through me. It seemed to me that the gold 
border of her sari was her own inner fire flaming out 
and twining round her. That is the flame we want, 
visible fire I Look here, Queen Bee, you really must do 
us the favor of dressing once more as a living flame.’ 

So long I had been like a small river at the border of 
a village. My rhythm and my language were different 
from what they are now. But the tide came up from 
the sea, and my breast heaved ; my banks gave way and 
the great drum-beats of the sea waves echoed in my 
mad current. I could not understand the meaning of 
that sound in my blood. Where was that former self 
of mine? Whence came foaming into me this surging 
flood of glory? Sandip’s hungry eyes burnt like the 
lamps of worship before my shrine. All his gaze pro- 
claimed that I was a wonder in beauty and power ; and 
the loudness of his praise, spoken and unspoken. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


53 


drowned all other voices in my world. Had the Cre- 
ator created me afresh, I wondered? Did he wish to 
make up now for neglecting me so long? I who before 
was plain had become suddenly beautiful. I who be- 
fore had been of no account now felt in myself all the 
splendour of Bengal itself. 

For Sandip Babu was not a mere individual. In him 
was the confidence of millions of minds of the country. 
When he called me the Queen Bee of the hive, I was 
acclaimed with a chorus of praise by all our patriot 
workers. After that, the loud jests of my sister-in-law 
could not touch me any longer. My relations with all 
the world underwent a change. Sandip Babu made it 
clear how all the country was in need of me. I had no 
difficulty in believing this at the time, for I felt that 
I had the power to do everything. Divine strength 
had come to me. It was something which I had never 
felt before, which was beyond myself. I had no time 
to question it to find out what was its nature. It 
seemed to belong to me, and yet to transcend me. It 
comprehended the whole of Bengal. 

Sandip Babu would consult me about every little 
thing touching the Cause. At first I felt very awkward 
and would hang back, but that soon wore off. What- 
ever I suggested seemed to astonish him. He would 
go into raptures and say : ‘ Men can only think. You 
women have a way of understanding without thinking. 


54 the home and THE WORLD 


Woman was created out of God’s own fancy. Man, 
He had to hammer into shape.’ 

Letters used to come to Sandip Babu from all parts 
of the country which were submitted to me for my 
opinion. Occasionally he disagreed with me. But I 
would not argue with him. Then after a day or two, — 
as if a new light had suddenly dawned upon him — ^he 
would send for me and say : ‘ It was my mistake. Your 
suggestion was the correct one.’ He would often con- 
fess to me that wherever he had taken steps contrary to 
my advice he had gone wrong. Thus I gradually came 
to be convinced that behind whatever was taking place 
was Sandip Babu, and behind Sandip Babu was the 
plain common-sense of a woman. The glory of a 
great responsibility filled my being. 

My husband had no place in our counsels. Sandip 
Babu treated him as a younger brother, of whom per- 
sonally one may be very fond and yet have no use for 
his business advice. He would tenderly and smilingly 
talk about my husband’s childlike innocence, saying that 
his curious doctrine and perversities of mind had a 
flavour of humour which made them all the more lov- 
able. It was seemingly this very affection for Nikhil 
which led Sandip Babu to forbear from troubling him 
with the burden of the country. 

Nature has many anodynes in her pharmacy, which 
she secretly administers when vital relations are being 


BIMALA’S STORY 


55 


insidiously severed, so that none may know of the 
operation, till at last one awakes to know what a great 
rent has been made. When the knife was busy with my 
life’s most intimate tie, my mind was so clouded with 
fumes of intoxicating gas, that I was not in the least 
aware of what a cruel thing was happening. Possibly 
this is woman’s nature. When her passion is roused 
she loses her sensibility for all that is outside it. When, 
like the river, we women keep to our banks, we give 
nourishment with all that we have : when we overflow 
them we destroy with all that we are. 

SANDIP’s STORY 
II 

I can see that something has gone wrong. I got an 
inkling of it the other day. 

Ever since my arrival, Nikhil’s sitting-room had be- 
come a thing amphibious, — half women’s apartment, 
half men’s : Bimala had access to it from the zenana, 
it was not barred to me from the outer side. If we had 
only gone slow, and made use of our privileges with 
some restraint, we might not have fallen foul of other 
people. But we went ahead so vehemently, that we 
could not think of the consequences. 

Whenever Bee comes into Nikhil’s room, I somehow 
get to know of it from mine. There are the tinkle of 


56 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


bangles and other little sounds; the door is perhaps 
shut with a shade of unnecessary vehemence; the book- 
case is a trifle stiff and creaks if jerked open. When I 
enter I find Bee, with her back to the door, ever so 
busy selecting a book from the shelves. And as I offer 
to assist her in this difficult task she starts and pro- 
tests ; and then we naturally get on to other topics. 

The other day, on an inauspicious^ Thursday after- 
noon, I sallied forth from my room at the call of these 
same sounds. There was a man on guard in the pas- 
sage. I walked on without so much as glancing at him, 
but as I approached the door he put himself in my way 
saying : ‘ Not that way, sir. * 

* Not that way ! Why ? ^ 

‘ The Rani Mother is there.’ 

‘ Oh, very well. Tell your Rani Mother that Sandip 
Babu wants to see her.’ 

‘ That cannot be, sir. It is against orders.’ 

I felt highly indignant. * I order you ! ’ I said in a 
raised voice. * Go and announce me.’ 

The fellow was somewhat taken aback at my atti- 
tude. In the meantime I had neared the door. I was 
on the point of reaching it, when he followed after me 
and took me by the arm saying : ‘ No, sir, you must 
not.’ 

What! To be touched by a flunkey! I snatched 
1 According to the Hindu calendar. — Tr. 


SANDIP’S STORY 


57 


away my arm and gave the man a sounding blow. At 
this moment Bee came out of the room to find the man 
about to insult me. 

I shall never forget the picture of her wrath ! That 
Bee is beautiful is a discovery of my own. Most of 
our people would see nothing in her. Her tall, slim 
figure these boors would call ‘ lanky.' But it is just 
this lithesomeness of hers that I admire, — like an up- 
leaping fountain of life, coming direct out of the depths 
of the Creator’s heart. Her complexion is dark, but 
it is the lustrous darkness of a sword-blade, keen and 
scintillating. 

' Nanku ! ’ she commanded, as she stood in the door- 
way, pointing with her finger, ‘ leave us.’ 

‘ Do not be angry with him,’ said I. ‘ If it is against 
orders, it is I who should retire.’ 

Bee’s voice was still trembling as she replied : ‘ You 
must not go. Come in.’ 

It was not a request, but again a command ! I fol- 
lowed her in, and taking a chair fanned myself with a 
fan which was on the table. Bee scribbled something 
with a pencil on a sheet of paper and, summoning 
a servant, handed it to him saying: ‘Take this to the 
Maharaja.’ 

‘ Forgive me,’ I resumed. ‘ I was unable to control 
myself, and hit that man of yours.’ 

‘You served him right,’ said Bee. 


58 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


' But it was not the poor fellow’s fault, after all. He 
was only obeying his orders.’ 

Here Nikhil came in, and as he did so I left my seat 
with a rapid movement and went and stood near the 
window with my back to the room. 

' Nanku, the guard, has insulted Sandip Babu,’ said 
Bee to Nikhil. 

Nikhil seemed to be so genuinely surprised that I 
had to turn round and stare at him. Even an out- 
rageously good man fails in keeping up his pride of 
truthfulness before his wife, — if she be the proper kind 
of woman. 

‘ He insolently stood in the way when Sandip Babu 
was coming in here,’ continued Bee. ‘ He said he had 
orders. . . . ’ 

‘ Whose orders ? ’ asked Nikhil. 

‘ How am I to know ? ’ exclaimed Bee impatiently, 
her eyes brimming over with mortification. 

Nikhil sent for the man and questioned him. ‘ It was 
not my fault,’ Nanku repeated sullenly. ‘ I had my 
orders.’ 

* Who gave you the order ? ’ 

‘ The Bara Rani Mother.’ 

We were all silent for a while. After the man had 
left, Bee said : ‘ Nanku must go! ’ 

Nikhil remained silent. I could see that his sense of 
justice would not allow this. There was no end to his 


SANBIP’S STORY 


59 


qualms. But this time he was up against a tough prob- 
lem. Bee was not the woman to take things lying 
down. She would have to get even with her sister-in- 
law by punishing this fellow. And as Nikhil remained 
silent, her eyes flashed fire. She knew not how to pour 
her scorn upon her husband’s feebleness of spirit. Nik- 
hil left the room after a while without another word. 

The next day Nanku was not to be seen. On en- 
quiry, I learnt that he had been sent off to some other 
part of the estates, and that his wages had not suffered 
by such transfer. 

I could catch glimpses of the ravages of the storm 
raging over this, behind the scenes. All I can say is, 
that Nikhil is a curious creature, quite out of the com- 
mon. 

The upshot was, that after this Bee began to send for 
me to the sitting-room, for a chat, without any con- 
trivance, or pretence of its being an accident. Thus 
from bare suggestion we came to broad hint : the im- 
plied came to be expressed. The daughter-in-law of a 
princely house lives in a starry region so remote from 
the ordinary outsider, that there is not even a regular 
road for his approach. What a triumphal progress of 
Truth was this which, gradually but persistently, thrust 
aside veil after veil of obscuring custom, till at length 
Nature herself was laid bare. 

Truth? Of course it was the truth! The attraction 


6o THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


of man and woman for each other is fundamental. The 
whole world of matter, from the speck of dust up- 
wards, is ranged on its side. And yet men would keep 
it hidden away out of sight, behind a tissue of words ; 
and with home-made sanctions and prohibitions make 
of it a domestic utensil. Why, it’s as absurd as melting 
down the solar system to make a watch chain for one’s 
son-in-law 1^ 

When, in spite of all, reality awakes at the call of 
what is but naked truth, what a gnashing of teeth and 
beating of breasts is there! But can one carry on a 
quarrel with a storm? It never takes the trouble to 
reply, it only gives a shaking. 

I am enjoying the sight of this truth, as it gradually 
reveals itself. These tremblings of steps, these turn- 
ings of the face, are sweet to me : and sweet are the 
deceptions which deceive not only others, but also Bee 
herself. When Reality has to meet the unreal, decep- 
tion is its principal weapon; for its enemies always try 
to shame Reality by calling it gross, and so it needs 
must hide itself, or else put on some disguise. The 
circumstances are such that it dare not frankly avow : 
'Yes, I am gross, because I am true. I am flesh. I am 
passion. I am hunger, unashamed and cruel.’ 

All is now clear to me. The curtain flaps, and 
through it I can see the preparations for the catas- 
^ The son-in-law is the pet of a Hindu household. 


SANDIP’S STORY 


6i 


trophe. The little red ribbon, which peeps through the 
luxuriant masses of her hair, with its flush of secret 
longing, it is the lolling tongue of the red storm cloud. 
I feel the warmth of each turn of her sariy each sug- 
gestion of her raiment, of which even the wearer may 
not be fully conscious. 

Bee was not conscious, because she was ashamed of 
the reality; to which men have given a bad name, call- 
ing it Satan; and so it has to steal into the garden of 
paradise in the guise of a snake, and whisper secrets 
into the ears of man’s chosen consort and make her 
rebellious; then farewell to all ease; and after that 
comes death ! 

My poor little Queen Bee is living in a dream. She 
knows not which way she is treading. It would not 
be safe to awaken her before the time. It is best for 
me to pretend to be equally unconscious. 

The other day, at dinner, she was gazing at me in a 
curious sort of way, little realising what such glances 
mean ! As my eyes met hers, she turned away with a 
flush. ‘ You are surprised at my appetite,’ I remarked. 

* I can hide everything, except that I am greedy ! Any- 
how, why trouble to blush for me, since I am shame- 
less ? ’ 

This only made her colour more furiously, as she 
stammered : ‘ No, no, I was only ... * 

* I know,’ I interrupted. ‘ Women have a weakness 


62 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


for greedy men; for it is this greed of ours which 
gives them the upper hand. The indulgence which I 
have always received at their hands has made me all 
the more shameless. I do not mind your watching the 
good things disappear, not one bit. I mean to enjoy 
every one of them.’ 

The other day I was reading an English book in 
which sex-problems were treated in an audaciously 
realistic manner. I had left it lying in the sitting- 
room. As I went there the next afternoon, for some- 
thing or other, I found Bee seated with this book in 
her hand. When she heard my footsteps she hur- 
riedly put it down and placed another book over it, — 
a volume of Mrs. Hemans’ poems. 

^ I have never been able to make out,’ I began, ‘ why 
women are so shy about being caught reading poetry. 
We men — lawyers, mechanics, or what not — may well 
feel ashamed. If we must read poetry, it should be at 
dead of night, within closed doors. But you women 
are so akin to poesy. The Creator Himself is a lyric 
poet, and Jayadeva ^ must have practised the divine art 
seated at His feet.’ 

Bee made no reply, but only blushed uncomfortably. 
She made as if she would leave the room. Whereupon 
I protested: ‘ No, no, pray read on. I will just take a 

Vaishnava poet (Sanskrit) whose lyrics of the adoration 
of the Divinity serve as well to express all shades of human 
passion. — Tr. 


SANDIP^S STORY 


63 


book I left here, and run away.’ With which I took 
up my book from the table. ' Lucky you did not think 
of glancing over its pages,’ I continued, ' or you would 
have wanted to chastise me.’ 

* Indeed ! Why ? ’ asked Bee. 

‘ Because it is not poetry,’ said I. ‘ Only blunt things, 
bluntly put, without any finicking niceness. I wish 
Nikhil would read it.’ 

Bee frowned a little as she murmured : ‘ What makes 
you wish that ? ’ 

‘ He is a man, you see, one of us. My only quarrel 
with him is that he delights in a misty vision of this 
world. Have you not observed how this trait of his 
makes him look on Swadeshi as if it was some poem 
of which the metre must be kept correct at every step? 
We, with the clubs of our prose, are the iconoclasts of 
metre.’ 

‘ What has your book to do with Swadeshi f ' 

* You would know if you only read it. Nikhil wants 
to go by made-up maxims, in Swadeshi as in everything 
else; so he knocks up against human nature at every 
turn, and then falls to abusing it. He never will real- 
ise that human nature was created long before phrases 
were, and will survive them too.’ 

Bee was silent for a while and then gravely said: 
‘Is it not a part of human nature to try and rise 
superior to itself ? ’ 


64 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I smiled inwardly. ‘ These are not your words/ I 
thought to myself. ‘ You have learnt them from Nik- 
hil. You are a healthy human being. Your flesh and 
blood have responded to the call of reality. You are 
burning in every vein with life-fire, — do I not know it? 
How long should they keep you cool with the wet towel 
of moral precepts ? ’ 

‘ The weak are in the majority,’ I said aloud. ‘ They 
are continually poisoning the ears of men by repeating 
these shibboleths. Nature has denied them strength, — 
it is thus that they try to enfeeble others.’ 

* We women are weak,’ replied Bimala. ‘ So I sup- 
pose we must join in the conspiracy of the weak.’ 

' Women weak! ’ I exclaimed with a laugh. ‘ Men 
belaud you as delicate and fragile, so as to delude you 
into thinking yourselves weak. But it is you, women, 
who are strong. Men make a great outward show of 
their so-called freedom, but those who know their in- 
ner minds are aware of their bondage. They have 
manufactured scriptures with their own hands to bind 
themselves; with their very idealism they have made 
golden fetters of women to wind round their body and 
mind. If men had not that extraordinary faculty of 
entangling themselves in meshes of their own con- 
triving, nothing could have kept them bound. But as 
for you women, you have desired to conceive reality 
with body and soul. You have given birth to reality. 
You have suckled reality at your breasts.’ 


SANDIP’S STORY 


6S 


Bee was well read for a woman, and would not easily 
give in to my arguments. * If that were true,’ she ob- 
jected, ‘ men would not have found women attractive.’ 

‘ Women realise the danger,’ I replied. ‘ They know 
that men love delusions, so they give them full measure 
by borrowing their own phrases. They know that 
man, the drunkard, values intoxication more than food, 
and so they try to pass themselves off as an intoxicant. 
As a matter of fact, but for the sake of man, woman 
has no need for any make-believe.’ 

‘ Why, then, are you troubling to destroy the 
illusion ? ’ 

‘ For freedom. I want the country to be free. I 
want human relations to be free.’ 

Ill 

I was aware that it is unsafe suddenly to awake a 
sleep-walker. But I am so impetuous by nature, a halt- 
ing gait does not suit me. I knew I was overbold that 
day. I knew that the first shock of such ideas is apt to 
be almost intolerable. But with women it is always 
audacity that wins. 

Just as we were getting on nicely, who should walk 
in but Nikhil’s old tutor Chandranath Babu. The 
world would have been not half a bad place to live in 
but for these schoolmasters, who make one want to 
quit it in disgust. The Nikhil type wants to keep the 


66 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


world always a school. This incarnation of a school 
turned up that afternoon at the psychological moment. 

We all remain schoolboys in some corner of our 
hearts, and I, even I, felt somewhat pulled up. As for 
poor Bee, she at once took her place solemnly, like the 
topmost girl of the class on the front bench. All of a 
sudden she seemed to remember that she had to face 
her examination. 

Some people are so like eternal pointsmen lying in 
wait by the line, to shunt one’s train of thought from 
one rail to another. 

Chandranath Babu had no sooner come in than he 
cast about for some excuse to retire, mumbling : ‘ I 
beg your pardon, I . . . ’ 

Before he could finish. Bee went up to him and made 
a profound obeisance, saying : * Pray do not leave us, 
sir. Will you not take a seat?’ She looked like a 
drowning person clutching at him for support, — the 
little coward! 

But possibly I was mistaken. It is quite likely that 
there was a touch of womanly wile in it. She wanted, 
perhaps, to raise her value in my eyes. She might have 
been pointedly saying to me : ‘ Please don’t imagine 
for a moment that I am entirely overcome by you. My 
respect for Chandranath Babu is even greater.’ 

Well, indulge in your respect by all means ! School- 
masters thrive on it. But not being one of them, I have 
no use for that empty compliment. 


SANDIP’S STORY 


67 


Chandranath Babu began to talk about Swadeshi. 
1 thought I would let him go on with his monologues. 
There is nothing like letting an old man talk himself 
out. It makes him feel that he is winding up the world, 
forgetting all the while how far away the real world is 
from his wagging tongue. 

But even my worst enemy would not accuse me of 
patience. And when Chandranath Babu went on to 
say : ‘ If we expect to gather fruit where we have sown 
no seed, then we ... ’ I had to interrupt him. 

‘ Who wants fruit? ’ I cried. ‘ We go by the Author 
of the Gita who says that we are concerned only with 
the doing, not with the fruit of our deeds.’ 

' What is it then that you do want ? ’ asked Chandra- 
nath Babu. 

‘ Thorns ! ’ I exclaimed, ‘ which cost nothing to 
plant.’ 

‘ Thorns do not obstruct others only,’ he replied. 
‘ They have a way of hurting one’s own feet.’ 

‘ That is all right for a copy-book,’ I retorted. ‘ But 
the real thing is that we have this burning at heart. 
Now we have only to cultivate thorns for others’ soles; 
afterwards when they hurt us we shall find leisure to 
repent. But why be frightened even of that? When 
at last we have to die it will be time enough to get cold. 
While we are on fire let us seethe and boil.’ 

Chandranath Babu smiled. ‘ Seethe by all means,’ 


68 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


he said, ‘ but do not mistake it for work, or heroism. 
Nations which have got on in the world have done so 
by action, not by ebullition. Those who have always 
lain in dread of work, when with a start they awake 
to their sorry plight, they look to short cuts and scam- 
pering for their deliverance.’ 

I was girding up my loins to deliver a crushing reply, 
when Nikhil came back. Chandranath Babu rose, and 
looking towards Bee, said : ‘ Let me go now, my little 
mother, I have some work to attend to.’ 

As he left, I showed Nikhil the book in my hand. 
‘ I was telling Queen Bee about this book,’ I said. 

Ninety-nine per cent of people have to be deluded 
with lies, but it is easier to delude this perpetual pupil 
of the schoolmaster with the truth. He is best cheated 
openly. So, in playing with him, the simplest course 
was to lay my cards on the table. 

Nikhil read the title on the cover, but said nothing. 
* These writers,’ I continued, ‘ are busy with their 
brooms, sweeping away the dust of epithets with which 
men have covered up this world of ours. So, as I was 
saying, I wish you would read it.’ 

‘ I have read it,’ said Nikhil. 

* Well, what do you say? ’ 

‘ It is all very well for those who really care to think, 
but poison for those who shirk thought.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 


SANDIP^S STORY 


69 


* Those who preach “ Equal Rights of Property ” 
should not be thieves. For, if they are, they would be 
preaching lies. When passion is in the ascendant, this 
kind of book is not rightly understood.’ 

* Passion,’ I replied, ‘ is the street lamp which guides 
us. To call it untrue is as hopeless as to expect to see 
better by plucking out our natural eyes.’ 

Nikhil was visibly growing excited. ‘ I accept the 
truth of passion,’ he said, ‘only when I recognise the 
truth of restraint. By pressing what we want to see 
right into our eyes we only injure them: we do not 
see. So does the violence of passion, which would 
leave no space between the mind and its object, defeat 
its purpose.’ 

‘ It is simply your intellectual foppery,’ I replied, 
‘ which makes you indulge in moral delicacy, ignoring 
the savage side of truth. This merely helps you to 
mystify things, and so you fail to do your work with 
any degree of strength.’ 

‘ The intrusion of strength,’ said Nikhil impatiently, 
‘ where strength is out of place, does not help you in 
your work. . . . But why are we arguing about these 
things ? Vain arguments only brush off the fresh bloom 
of truth.’ 

I wanted Bee to join in the discussion, but she had 
not said a word up to now. Could I have given her 
too rude a shock, leaving her assailed with doubts and 


70 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


wanting to learn her lesson afresh from the school- 
master ? Still, a thorough shaking up is essential. One 
must begin by realising that things supposed to be 
unshakeable can be shaken. 

‘ I am glad I had this talk with you,’ I said to Nikhil, 
* for I was on the point of lending this book to Queen 
Bee to read.’ 

‘What harm?’ said Nikhil. ‘ If I could read the 
book, why not Bimala too ? All I want to say is, that 
in Europe people look at everything from the view- 
point of science. But man is neither mere physiology, 
nor biology, nor psychology, nor even sociology. For 
God’s sake don’t forget that. Man is infinitely more 
than the natural science of himself. You laugh at me, 
calling me the schoolmaster’s pupil, but that is what 
you are, not I. You want to find the truth of man 
from your science teachers, and not from your own 
inner being.’ 

‘ But why all this excitement ? ’ I mocked. 

‘ Because I see you are bent on insulting man and 
making him petty.’ 

‘ Where on earth do you see all that ? ’ 

‘ In the air, in my outraged feelings. You would go 
on wounding the great, the unselfish, the beautiful in 
man.’ 

‘ What mad idea is this of yours ? ’ 

Nikhil suddenly stood up. ‘ I tell you plainly, San- 


SANDIP’S STORY 


71 


dip/ he said, * man may be wounded unto death, but he 
will not die. This is the reason why I am ready to suf- 
fer all, knowing all, with eyes open/ 

With these words he hurriedly left the room. 

I was staring blankly at his retreating figure, when 
the sound of a book, falling from the table, made me 
turn to find Bee following him with quick, nervous 
steps, making a detour to avoid passing too near me. 

A curious creature, that Nikhil! He feels the dan- 
ger threatening his home, and yet why does he not turn 
me out? I know, he is waiting for Bimal to give him 
the cue. If Bimal tells him that their mating has been 
a misfit, he will bow his head and admit that it may 
have been a blunder ! He has not the strength of mind 
to understand that to acknowledge a mistake is the 
greatest of all mistakes. He is a typical example of 
how ideas make for weakness. I have not seen another 
like him, — so whimsical a product of nature! He 
would hardly do as a character in a novel or drama, to 
say nothing of real life. 

And Bee? I am afraid her dream-life is over from 
to-day. She has at length understood the nature of 
the current which is bearing her along. Now she must 
either advance or retreat, open-eyed. The chances are 
she will now advance a step, and then retreat a step. 
But that does not disturb me. When one is on 
fire, this rushing to and fro makes the blaze all 


72 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


the fiercer. The fright she has got will only fan 
her passion. 

Perhaps I had better not say much to her, but 
simply select some modern books for her to read. Let 
her gradually come to the conviction that to acknowl- 
edge and respect passion as the supreme reality, — is to 
be modern, — not to be ashamed of it, not to glorify 
restraint. If she finds shelter in some such word as 
‘ modern,’ she will find strength. 

Be that as it may, I must see this out to the end of 
the Fifth Act. I cannot, unfortunately, boast of being 
merely a spectator, seated in the royal box, applauding 
now and again. There is a wrench at my heart, a pang 
in every nerve. When I have put out the light and am 
in my bed, little touches, little glances, little words, flit 
about and fill the darkness. When I get up in the morn- 
ing, I thrill with lively anticipations, my blood seems 
to course through me to the strains of music. . . . 

There was a double photo-frame on the table with 
Bee’s photograph by the side of Nikhil’s. I had taken 
out hers. Yesterday I showed Bee the empty side and 
said : ‘ Theft becomes necessary only because of miser- 
liness, so its sin must be divided between the miser and 
the thief. Do you not think so ? ’ 

' It was not a good one,’ observed Bee simply, with 
a little smile. 

‘ What is to be done ? ’ said I. ‘ A portrait cannot 


SANDIP’S STORY 


73 

be better than a portrait. I must be content with it, 
such as it is.’ 

Bee took up a book and began to turn over the pages. 
* If you are annoyed,’ I went on, ‘ I must make a shift 
to fill up the vacancy.’ 

To-day I have filled it up. This photograph of mine 
was taken in my early youth. My face was then 
fresher, and so was my mind. Then I still cherished 
some illusions about this world and the next. Faith 
deceives men, but it has one great merit : it imparts a 
radiance to the features. 

My portrait now reposes next to Nikhil’s, for are 
riot the two of us old friends? 


CHAPTER IV 
nikhil's story 

III 

I WAS never self-conscious. But nowadays I often try 
to take an outside view, — to see myself as Bimal sees 
me. What a dismally solemn picture it makes, my 
habit of taking things too seriously ! 

Better, surely, to laugh away the world than flood it 
with tears. That is, in fact, how the world gets on. 
We relish our food and rest, only because we can dis- 
miss, as so many empty shadows, the sorrows scattered 
everywhere, both in the home and in the outer world. 
If we took them as true, even for a moment, where 
would be our appetite, our sleep ? 

But I cannot dismiss myself as one of these shadows, 
and so the load of my sorrow lies eternally heavy on 
the heart of my world. 

Why not stand out aloof in the highway of the uni- 
verse, and feel yourself to be part of the all? In the 
midst of the immense, age-long concourse of humanity, 
what is Bimal to you? Your wife? What is a wife? 
A bubble of a name blown big with your own breath. 


74 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


75 

so carefully guarded night and day, yet ready to burst 
at any pinprick from outside. 

My wife, — and so forsooth, my very own! If she 
says: ‘No, I am myself,' — am I to reply: ‘How can 
that be ? Are you not mine ? ' 

‘ My wife,’ — Does that amount to an argument, 
much less the truth? Can one imprison a whole per- 
sonality within that name? 

My wife ! — Have I not cherished in this little world 
all that is purest and sweetest in my life, never for a 
moment letting it down from my bosom to the dust? 
What incense of worship, what music of passion, what 
flowers of my spring and of my autumn, have I not 
offered up at its shrine? If, like a toy paper-boat, she 
be swept along into the muddy waters of the gutter, — > 
would I not also . . . ? 

There it is again, my incorrigible solemnity! Why 
‘ muddy ’ ? What ‘ gutter ’ ? Names, called in a fit of 
jealousy, do not change the facts of the world. If 
Bimal is not mine, she is not ; and no fuming, or fret- 
ting, or arguing will serve to prove that she is. If my 
heart is breaking — let it break! That will not make 
the world bankrupt, — nor even me ; for man is so much 
greater than the things he loses in this life. The very 
ocean of tears has its other shore, else none would 
have ever wept. 

But then there is Society to be considered . . . which 


76 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


let Society consider! If I weep it is for myself, not 
for Society. If Bimal should say she is not mine, 
what care I where my Society wife may be? 

Suffering there must be ; but I must save myself, by 
any means in my power, from one form of self-torture : 
I must never think that my life loses its value because 
of any neglect it may suffer. The full value of my life 
does not all go to buy my narrow domestic world; its 
great commerce does not stand or fall with some petty 
success or failure in the bartering of my personal joys 
and sorrows. 

The time has come when I must divest Bimala of all 
the ideal decorations with which I decked her. It was 
owing to my own weakness that I indulged in such 
idolatry. I was too greedy. I created an angel of 
Bimala, in order to exaggerate my own enjoyment. 
But Bimala is what she is. It is preposterous to ex- 
pect that she should assume the role of an angel for my 
pleasure. The Creator is under no obligation to 
supply me with angels, just because I have an avidity 
for imaginary perfection. 

I must acknowledge that I have merely been an acci- 
dent in Bimala’s life. Her nature, perhaps, can only 
find true union with one like Sandip. At the same time, 
I must not, in false modesty, accept my rejection as 
my desert. Sandip certainly has attractive qualities, 
which had their sway also upon myself ; but yet, I feel 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


77 


sure, he is not a greater man than 1. If the wreath of 
victory falls to his lot to-day, and I am overlooked, 
then the dispenser of the wreath will be called to 
judgment. 

I say this in no spirit of boasting. Sheer necessity 
has driven me to the pass, that to secure myself from 
utter desolation I must recognise all the value that I 
truly possess. Therefore, through the terrible expe- 
rience of suffering let there come upon me the joy of 
deliverance, — deliverance from self-distrust. 

I have come to distinguish what is really in me, from 
what I foolishly imagined to be there. The profit and 
loss account has been settled, and that which remains is 
myself, — not a crippled self, dressed in rags and tat- 
ters, not a sick self to be nursed on invalid diet, but a 
spirit which has gone through the worst, and has sur- 
vived. 

My master passed through my room a moment ago 
and said with his hand on my shoulder : ' Get away to 
bed, Nikhil, the night is far advanced.’ 

The fact is, it has become so difficult for me to go 
to bed till late, — till Bimal is fast asleep. In the 
daytime we meet, and even converse, but what am 
I to say when we are alone together, in the 
silence of the night? — so ashamed do I feel in mind 
and body. 

‘ How is it, sir, you have not yet retired ? ’ I asked in 


78 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


my turn. My master smiled a little, as he left me, 
saying : ' My sleeping days are over. I have now at- 
tained the waking age/ 

I had written thus far, and was about to rise to go 
off bedwards when, through the window before me, I 
saw the heavy pall of July cloud suddenly part a little, 
and a big star shine through. It seemed to say to me : 
* Dreamland ties are made, and dreamland ties are 
broken, but I am here for ever, — ^the everlasting lamp 
of the bridal night.’ 

All at once my heart was full with the thought that 
my Eternal Love was steadfastly waiting for me 
through the ages, behind the veil of material things. 
Through many a life, in many a mirror, have I seen 
her image, — ^broken mirrors, crooked mirrors, dusty 
mirrors. Whenever I have sought to make the mirror 
my very own, and shut it up within my box, I have lost 
sight of the image. But what of that. What have I to 
do with the mirror or even the image ? 

My beloved, your smile shall never fade, and every 
dawn there shall appear fresh for me the vermilion 
mark on your forehead! 

‘What childish cajolery of self-deception,’ mocks 
some devil from his dark corner, — ‘ Silly prattle to 
make children quiet ! ’ 

That may be. But millions and millions of children, 
with their million cries, have to be kept quiet. Can it 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


79 


be that all this multitude is quieted with only a lie? 
No, my Eternal Love cannot deceive me, for she is 
true! 

She is true ; that is why I have seen her and shall see 
ber so often, even in my mistakes, even through the 
thickest mist of tears. I have seen her and lost her in 
the crowd of life’s market-place, and found her again; 
and I shall find her once more when I have escaped 
through the loop-hole of death. 

Ah, cruel one, play with me no longer! If I have 
failed to track you by the marks of your footsteps on 
the way, by the scent of your tresses lingering in the 
air, make me not weep for that for ever. The unveiled 
star tells me not to fear. That which is eternal must 
always be there. 

Now let me go and see my Bimala. She must have 
spread her tired limbs on the bed, limp after her strug- 
gles, and be asleep. I will leave a kiss on her forehead 
without waking her, — that shall be the flower-offering 
of my worship. I believe I could forget everything 
after death, — all my mistakes, all my sufferings, — ^but 
some vibration of the memory of that kiss would re- 
main; for the wreath which is being woven out of the 
kisses of many a successive birth is to crown the Eter- 
nal Beloved. 

As the gong of the watch rang out, sounding the 
hour of two, my sister-in-law came into the room. 


8o THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘ Whatever are you doing, brother dear ? ’ ^ she cried. 
‘ For pity’s sake go to bed and stop worrying so. I 
cannot bear to look on that awful shadow of pain on 
your face.’ Tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed 
as she entreated me thus. 

I could not utter a word, but took the dust of her 
feet, as I went off to bed. 

bimala’s story 

VII 

At first I suspected nothing, feared nothing; I 
simply felt dedicated to my country. What a stu- 
pendous joy there was in this unquestioning surrender. 
Verily had I realised how, in thoroughness of self- 
destruction, man can find supreme bliss. 

For aught I know, this frenzy of mine might have 
come to a gradual, natural end. But Sandip Babu 
would not have it so, he would insist on revealing him- 
self. The tone of his voice became as intimate as a 
touch, every look flung itself on its knees in beggary. 
And, through it all, there burned a passion which in its 
violence made as though it would tear me up by the 
roots, and drag me along by the hair. 

^ When a relationship is established by marriage, or by mutual 
understanding arising out of special friendship or affection, the 
persons so related call each other in terms of such relationship, 
and not by name. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


8i 


I will not shirk the truth. This cataclysmal desire 
drew me by day and by night. It seemed desperately 
alluring, — ^this making havoc of myself. What a shame 
it seemed, how terrible, and yet how sweet! Then 
there was my overpowering curiosity, to which there 
seemed no limit. He of whom I knew but little, who 
never could assuredly be mine, whose youth flared so 
vigorously in a hundred points of flame — oh, the mys- 
tery of his seething passions, so immense, so tumult- 
uous! 

I began with a feeling of worship, but that soon 
passed away. I ceased even to respect Sandip; on the 
contrary, I began to look down upon him. Neverthe- 
less this flesh-and-blood lute of mine, fashioned with 
my feeling and fancy, found in him a master-player. 
What though I shrank from his touch, and even came 
to loathe the lute itself ; its music was conjured up all 
the same. 

I must confess there was something in me which 
. . . what shall I say? . . . which makes me wish I 
could have died! 

Chandranath Babu, when he finds leisure, comes to 
me. He has the power to lift my mind up to an emi- 
nence from where I can see in a moment the boundary 
of my life extended on all sides and so realise that the 
lines, which I took from my bounds, were merely 
imaginary. 


6 


82 THE HOME AND THE^WORLD 

But what is the use of it all? Do I really desire 
emancipation? Let suffering come to our house; let 
the best in me shrivel up and become black; but let 
this infatuation not leave me, — such seems to be my 
prayer. 

When, before my marriage, I used to see a brother- 
in-law of mine, now dead, mad with drink, — ^beating 
his wife in his frenzy, and then sobbing and howling 
in maudlin repentance, vowing never to touch liquor 
again, and yet, the very same evening, sitting down to 
drink and drink, — it would fill me with disgust. But 
my intoxication to-day is still more fearful. The stuff 
has not to be procured or poured out : it springs within 
my veins, and I know not how to resist it. 

Must this continue to the end of my days? Now 
and again I start and look upon myself, and think 
my life to be a nightmare which will vanish all of a 
sudden with all its untruth. It has become so fright- 
fully incongruous. It has no connexion with its past. 
What it is, how it could have come to this pass, I can- 
not understand. 

One day my sister-in-law remarked with a cutting 
laugh : ‘ What a wonderfully hospitable Chota Rani we 
have! Her guest absolutely will not budge. In our 
time there used to be guests, too ; but they had not such 
lavish looking after, — we were so absurdly taken up 
with our husbands. Poor brother Nikhil is paying the 


BIMALA^S STORY 


83 

penalty of being born too modern. He should have 
come as a guest if he wanted to stay on. Now it looks 
as if it were time for him to quit. . . . O you little 
demon, do your glances never fall, by chance, on his 
agonised face ? ’ 

This sarcasm did not touch me; for I knew that 
these women had it not in them to understand the 
nature of the cause of my devotion. I was then 
wrapped in the protecting armour of the exaltation of 
sacrifice, through which such shafts were powerless to 
reach and shame me. 


VIII 

For some time all talk of the country’s cause has 
been dropped. Our conversation nowadays has become 
full of modern sex-problems, and various other mat- 
ters, with a sprinkling of poetry, both old Vaishnava 
and modern English, accompanied by a running under- 
tone of melody, low down in the bass, such as I have 
never in my life heard before, which seems to me to 
sound the true manly note, the note of power. 

The day had come when all cover was gone. There 
was no longer even the pretence of a reason why San- 
dip Babu should linger on, or why I should have con- 
fidential talks with him every now and then. I felt 
thoroughly vexed with myself, with my sister-in-law, 
with the ways of the world, and I vowed I would never 


84 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

again go to the outer apartments, not if I were to die 
for it.’ 

For two whole days I did not stir out. Then, for 
the first time, I discovered how far I had travelled. 
My life felt utterly tasteless. Whatever I touched I 
wanted to thrust away. I felt myself waiting, — from 
the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, — waiting 
for something, somebody ; my blood kept tingling with 
some expectation. 

I tried busying myself with extra work. The bed- 
room floor was clean enough, but I insisted on its being 
scrubbed over again under my eyes. Things were ar- 
ranged in the cabinets in one kind of order; I pulled 
them all out and rearranged them in a different way. I 
found no time that afternoon even to do up my hair; I 
hurriedly tied it into a loose knot, and went and worried 
everybody, fussing about the store-room. The stores 
seemed short, and pilfering must have been going on of 
late, but I could not muster up the courage to take any 
particular person to task, — for might not the thought 
have crossed somebody’s mind : * Where were your eyes 
all these days ! ’ 

In short, I behaved that day as one possessed. The 
next day I tried to do some reading. What I read I 
have no idea, but after a spell of absent-mindedness I 
found I had wandered away, book in hand, along the 
passage leading towards the outer apartments, and was 


BIMALA’S STORY 


8S 


standing by a window looking out upon the verandah 
running along the row of rooms on the opposite side 
of the quadrangle. One of these rooms, I felt, had 
crossed over to another shore, and the ferry had ceased 
to ply. I felt like the ghost of myself of two days 
ago, doomed to remain where I was, and yet not really 
there, blankly looking out for ever. 

As I stood there, I saw Sandip come out of his room 
into the verandah, a newspaper in his hand. I could see 
that he looked extraordinarily disturbed. The court- 
yard, the railings, in front, seemed to rouse his wrath. 
He flung away his newspaper with a gesture which 
seemed to want to rend the space before him. 

I felt I could no longer keep my vow. I was about 
to move on towards the sitting-room, when I found 
my sister-in-law behind me. ‘ O Lord, this beats every- 
thing! ’ she ejaculated, as she glided away. I could not 
proceed to the outer apartments. 

The next morning when my maid came calling: 
‘ Rani Mother, it is getting late for giving out the 
stores,’ I flung the keys to her, saying: ‘ Tell Harimati 
to see to it,’ and went on with some embroidery of 
English pattern on which I was engaged, seated near 
the window. 

Then came a servant with a letter. ‘ From Sandip 
Babu,’ said he. What unbounded boldness! What 
must the messenger have thought ? There was a tremor 


86 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


within my breast as I opened the envelope. There was 
no address on the letter, only the words: An urgent 
matter — touching the cause. Sandip. 

I flung aside the embroidery. I was up on my feet in 
a moment, giving a touch or two to my hair by the 
mirror. I kept the sari I had on, changing only my 
jacket, — for one of my jackets had its associations. 

I had to pass through one of the verandahs, where 
my sister-in-law used to sit in the morning slicing betel- 
nut. I refused to feel awkward. ‘ Whither away, 
Chota Rani ? ’ she cried. 

‘ To the sitting-room outside.’ 

* So early ! A matinee, eh ? ’ 

And, as I passed on without further reply, she 
hummed after me a flippant song. 

IX 

When I was about to enter the sitting-room, I saw 
Sandip immersed in an illustrated catalogue of British 
Academy pictures, with his back to the door. He has 
a great notion of himself as an expert in matters of 
Art. 

One day my husband said to him: ‘ If the artists 
ever want a teacher, they need never lack for one so 
long as you are there.’ It had not been my husband’s 
habit to speak cuttingly, but latterly there has been a 
change and he never spares Sandip. 


BIMALA’S STORY 87 

‘ What makes you suppose that artists need no 
teachers ? ’ Sandip retorted. 

‘ Art is a creation,’ my husband replied. ‘ So we 
should humbly be content to receive our lessons about 
Art from the work of the artist.’ 

Sandip laughed at this modesty, saying: ‘ You think 
that meekness is a kind of capital which increases your 
wealth the more you use it. It is my conviction that 
those who lack pride only float about like water reeds 
which have no roots in the soil.’ 

My mind used to be full of contradictions when they 
talked thus. On the one hand I was eager that my 
husband should win in argument and that Sandip’s 
pride should be shamed. Yet, on the other, it 
was Sandip’s unabashed pride which attracted me so. 
It shone like a precious diamond, which knows no 
diffidence, and sparkles in the face of the sun 
itself. 

I entered the room. I knew Sandip could hear my 
footsteps as I went forward, but he pretended not to, 
and kept his eyes on the book. 

I dreaded his Art talks, for I could not overcome my 
delicacy about the pictures he talked of, and the things 
he said, and had much ado in putting on an air of 
overdone insensibility to hide my qualms. So, I was 
almost on the point of retracing my steps, when, with a 
deep sigh, Sandip raised his eyes, and affected to be 


88 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


startled at the sight of me. ‘ Ah, you have come ! * 
he said. 

In his words, in his tone, in his eyes, there was a 
world of suppressed reproach, as if the claims he had 
acquired over me made my absence, even for these 
two or three days, a grievous wrong. I knew this 
attitude was an insult to me, but, alas, I had not the 
power to resent it. 

I made no reply, but though I was looking another 
way, I could not help feeling that Sandip’s plaintive 
gaze had planted itself right on my face, and would 
take no denial. I did so wish he would say some- 
thing, so that I could shelter myself behind his words. 
I cannot tell how long this went on, but at last I could 
stand it no longer. ‘ What is this matter,' I asked, 
‘ you are wanting to tell me about ? ' 

Sandip again affected surprise as he said : ‘ Must 
there always be some matter? Is friendship by itself 
a crime? Oh, Queen Bee, to think that you should 
make so light of the greatest thing on earth! Is the 
heart’s worship to be shut out like a stray cur ? ’ 

There was again that tremor within me. I could 
feel the crisis coming, too importunate to be put off. 
Joy and fear struggled for the mastery. Would my 
shoulders, I wondered, be broad enough to stand its 
shock, or would it not leave me overthrown, with my 
face in the dust ? 


BIMALA’S STORY 


89 


I was trembling all over. Steadying myself with 
an effort I repeated: ‘You summoned me for some- 
thing touching the Cause, so I have left my household 
duties to attend to it.’ 

‘ That is just what I was trying to explain,’ he said, 
with a dry laugh. ‘ Do you not know that I come to 
worship ? Have I not told you that, in you, I visualise 
the Shakti of our country? The Geography of a 
country is not the whole truth. No one can give up 
his life for a map! When I see you before me, then 
only do I realise how lovely my country is. When 
you have anointed me with your own hands, then shall 
I know I have the sanction of my country; and if, with 
that in my heart, I fall fighting, it shall not be on the 
dust of some map-made land, but on a lovingly spread 
skirt — do you know what kind of skirt ? — like that of 
the earthen-red sari you wore the other day, with a 
broad blood- red border. Can I ever forget it? Such 
are the visions which give vigour to life, and joy to 
death 1 ’ 

Sandip’s eyes took fire as he went on, but whether 
it was the fire of worship, or of passion, I could not 
tell. I was reminded of the day on which I first heard 
him speak, when I could not be sure whether he was a 
person, or just a living flame. 

I had not the power to utter a word. You cannot 
take shelter behind the walls of decorum when in a 


90 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

moment the fire leaps up and, with the flash of its 
sword and the roar of its laughter, destroys all the 
miser’s stores. I was in terror lest he should forget 
himself and take me by the hand. For he shook like 
a quivering tongue of fire; his eyes showered scorch- 
ing sparks on me. 

‘ Are you for ever determined,’ he cried after a 
pause, ‘ to make gods of your petty household duties, 
— you who have it in you to send us to life or to death? 
Is this power of yours to be kept veiled in a zenana? 
Cast away all false shame, I pray you; snap your 
fingers at the whispering around. Take your plunge 
to-day into the freedom of the outer world.’ 

When, in Sandip’s appeals, his worship of the coun- 
try gets to be subtly interwoven with his worship of 
me, then does my blood dance, indeed, and the barriers 
of my hesitation totter. His talks about Art and Sex, 
his distinctions between Real and Unreal, had but 
clogged my attempts at response with some revolting 
nastiness. This, however, now burst again into a 
glow before which my repugnance faded away. I felt 
that my resplendent womanhood made me indeed a 
goddess. Why should not its glory flash from my 
forehead with visible brilliance? Why does not my 
voice find a word, some audible cry, which would be 
like a sacred spell to my country for its fire initiation ? 

All of a sudden my maid Khema rushed into the 


BIMALA’S STORY 


91 


room, dishevelled. ‘ Give me my wages and let me 
go/ she screamed. ‘ Never in all my life have I been 
so . . The rest of her speech was drowned in 
sobs. 

‘ What is the matter ? ^ 

Thako, the Bara Rani’s maid, it appeared, had for 
no rhyme or reason reviled her in unmeasured terms. 
She was in such a state, it was no manner of use trying 
to pacify her by saying I would look into the matter 
afterwards. 

The slime of domestic life that lay beneath the lotus 
bank of womanhood came to the surface. Rather 
than allow Sandip a prolonged vision of it, I had to 
hurry back within. 


X 

My sister-in-law was absorbed in her betel-nuts, the 
suspicion of a smile playing about her lips, as if 
nothing untoward had happened. She was still hum- 
ming the same song. 

‘ Why has your Thako been calling poor Khema 
names ? ’ I burst out. 

‘ Indeed ? The wretch ! I will have her broomed 
out of the house. What a shame to spoil your morn- 
ing out like this! As for Khema, where are the 
hussy’s manners to go and disturb you when you are 
engaged? Anyhow, Chota Rani, don’t you worry 


92 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

yourself with these domestic squabbles. Leave them 
to me, and return to your friend.’ 

How suddenly the wind in the sails of our mind 
veers round! This going to meet Sandip outside 
seemed, in the light of the zenana code, such an ex- 
traordinarily out-of-the-way thing to do that I went off 
to my own room, at a loss for a reply. I knew this 
was my sister-in-law’s doing and that she had egged 
her maid on to contrive this scene. But I had brought 
myself to such an unstable poise that I dared not have 
my fling. 

Why, it was only the other day that I found I could 
not keep up to the last the unbending hauteur with 
which I had demanded from my husband the dismissal 
of the man Nanku. I felt suddenly abashed when the 
Bara Rani came up and said : ‘ It is really all my fault, 
brother dear. We are old-fashioned folk, and I did 
not quite like the ways of your Sandip Babu, so I only 
told the guard . . . but how was I to know that our 
Chota Rani would take this as an insult? — I thought 
it would be the other way about ! Just my incorrigible 
silliness ! ’ 

The thing which seems so glorious when viewed 
from the heights of the country’s cause, looks so muddy 
when seen from the bottom. One begins by getting 
angry, and then feels disgusted. 

I shut myself into my room, sitting by the window, 


BIMALA’S STORY 


93 


thinking how easy life would be if only one could keep 
in harmony with one’s surroundings. How simply 
the senior Rani sits in her verandah with her betel- 
nuts and how inaccessible to me has become my natural 
seat beside my daily duties ! Where will it all end, I 
asked myself? Shall I ever recover, as from a de- 
lirium, and forget it all; or am I to be dragged to 
depths from which there can be no escape in this life? 
How on earth did I manage to let my good fortune 
escape me, and spoil my life so? Every wall of this 
bedroom of mine, which I first entered nine years ago 
as a bride, stares at me in dismay. 

When my husband came home, after his M.A. exam- 
ination, he brought for me this orchid belonging to 
some far-away land beyond the seas. From beneath 
these few little leaves sprang such a cascade of blos- 
soms, it looked as if they were pouring forth from 
some overturned urn of Beauty. We decided, to- 
gether, to hang it here, over this window. It flowered 
only that once, but we have always been in hope of its 
doing so once more. Curiously enough I have kept 
on watering it these days, from force of habit, and 
it is still green. 

It is now four years since I framed a photograph of 
my husband in ivory and put it in the niche over there. 
If I happen to look that way I have to lower my eyes. 
Up to last week I used regularly to put there the 


94 the home and THE WORLD 


flowers of my worship, every morning after my bath. 
My husband has often chided me over this. 

‘ It shames me to see you place me on a height to 
which I do not belong,’ he said one day. 

' What nonsense ! ’ 

‘ I am not only ashamed, but also jealous! ’ 

‘ Just hear him I Jealous of whom, pray ? ’ 

‘ Of that false me. It only shows that I am too 
petty for you, that you want some extraordinary man 
who can overpower you with his superiority, and so 
you needs must take refuge in making for yourself 
another me.” ’ 

* This kind of talk only makes me angry,’ said I. 

‘What is the use of being angry with me?’ he 
replied. ‘ Blame your fate which allowed you no 
choice, but made you take me blindfold. This keeps 
you trying to retrieve its blunder by making me out 
a paragon.’ 

I felt so hurt at the bare idea that tears started to 
my eyes that day. And whenever I think of that now, 
I cannot raise my eyes to the niche. 

For now there is another photograph in my jewel 
case. The other day, when arranging the sitting- 
room, I brought away that double photo frame, the 
one in which Sandip’s portrait was next to my hus- 
band’s. To this portrait I have no flowers of worship 
to offer, but it remains hidden away under my gems. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


95 


It has all the greater fascination because kept secret. 
I look at it now and then with doors closed. At night 
I turn up the lamp, and sit with it in my hand, gazing 
and gazing. And every night I think of burning it in 
the flame of the lamp, to be done with it for ever; but 
every night I heave a sigh and smother it again in my 
pearls and diamonds. 

Ah, wretched woman! What a wealth of love was 
twined round each one of those jewels I Oh, why am 
I not dead? 

Sandip had impressed it on me that hesitation is not 
in the nature of woman. For her, neither right nor 
left has any existence, — she only moves forward. 
When the women of our country wake up, he re- 
peatedly insisted, their voice will be unmistakably con- 
fident in its utterance of the cry : I want/ 

* I want 1 ’ Sandip went on one day, — this was the 
primal word at the root of all creation. It had no 
maxim to guide it, but it became fire and wrought 
itself into suns and stars. Its partiality is terrible. 
Because it had a desire for man, it ruthlessly sacrificed 
millions of beasts for millions of years to achieve that 
desire. That terrible word ‘ I want ’ has taken flesh in 
woman, and therefore men, who are cowards, try with 
all their might to keep back this primeval flood with 
their earthen dykes. They are afraid lest, laughing 
and dancing as it goes, it should wash away all the 


96 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


hedges and props of their pumpkin field. Men, in 
every age, flatter themselves that they have secured 
this force within the bounds of their convenience, but 
it gathers and grows. Now it is calm and deep like a 
lake, but gradually its pressure will increase, the dykes 
will give way, and the force which has so long been 
dumb will rush forward with the roar : ‘ I want ! ^ 

These words of Sandip echo in my heart-beats like 
a war-drum. They shame into silence all my conflicts 
with myself. What do I care what people may think 
of me? Of what value is that orchid and that niche 
in my bedroom? What power have they to belittle 
me, to put me to shame? The primal fire of creation 
burns in me. 

I felt a strong desire to snatch down the orchid and 
fling it out of the window, to denude the niche of its 
picture, to lay bare and naked the unashamed spirit 
of destruction that raged within me. My arm was 
raised to do it, but a sudden pang passed through my 
breast, tears started to my eyes. I threw myself down 
and sobbed : ‘ What is the end of all this, what is the 
end?’ 

SANDIP’S STORY 
IV 

When I read these pages of the story of my life I 
seriously question myself : Is this Sandip ! Am I 


SANDIP’S STORY 


97 

made of words? Am I merely a book with a covering 
of flesh and blood? 

The earth is not a dead thing like the moon. She 
breathes. Her rivers and oceans send up vapours in 
which she is clothed. She is covered with a mantle of 
her own dust which flies about the air. The onlooker, 
gazing upon the earth from the outside, can see only 
the light reflected from this vapour and this dust. 
The tracks of the mighty continents are not distinctly 
visible. 

The man, who is alive as this earth is, is likewise 
always enveloped in the mist of the ideas which he is 
breathing out. His real land and water remain hid- 
den, and he appears to be made of only lights and 
shadows. 

It seems to me, in this story of my life, that, like a 
living planet, I am displaying the picture of an ideal 
world. But I am not merely what I want, what I 
think, — am also what I do not love, what I do not 
wish to be. My creation had begun before I was born. 
I had no choice in regard to my surroundings and so 
must make the best of such material as comes to my 
hand. 

My theory of life makes me certain that the Great 
is cruel. To be just is for ordinary men, — it is re- 
served for the great to be unjust. The surface of the 
earth was even. The volcano butted it with its fiery 


98 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


horn and found its own eminence, — its justice was not 
towards its obstacle, but towards itself. Successful 
injustice and genuine cruelty have been the only forces 
by which individual or nation has become millionaire 
or monarch. 

That is why I preach the great discipline of Injustice. 
I say to every one: Deliverance is based upon injus- 
tice. Injustice is the fire which must keep on burning 
something in order to save itself from becoming ashes. 
Whenever an individual or nation becomes incapable 
of perpetrating injustice it is swept into the dust-bin 
of the world. 

As yet this is only my idea, — it is not completely 
myself. There are rifts in the armour through which 
something peeps out which is extremely soft and sen- 
sitive. Because, as I say, the best part of myself was 
created before I came to this stage of existence. 

From time to time I try my followers in their lesson 
of cruelty. One day we went on a picnic. A goat 
was grazing by. I asked them : ‘ Who is there among 
you that can cut off a leg of that goat, alive, with this 
knife, and bring it to me? ' While they all hesitated, 
I went myself and did it. One of them fainted at the 
sight. But when they saw me unmoved they took the 
dust of my feet, saying that I was above all human 
weaknesses. That is to say they saw that day the 
vaporous envelope which was my idea, but failed to 


SANDIP’S STORY 


99 

perceive the inner me, which by a curious freak of fate 
has been created tender and merciful. 

In the present chapter of my life, which is growing 
in interest every day round Bimala and Nikhil, there 
is also much that remains hidden underneath. This 
malady of ideas which afflicts me is shaping my life 
within: nevertheless a great part of my life remains 
outside its influence; and so there is set up a discrep- 
ancy between my outward life and its inner design 
which I try my best to keep concealed even from my- 
self; otherwise it may wreck not only my plans, but 
my very life. 

Life is indefinite, — a bundle of contradictions. We 
men, with ourideas, strive to give it a particular shape 
by melting it into a particular mould, — into the def- 
initeness of success. All the world-conquerors, from 
Alexander down to the American millionaires, mould 
themselves into a sword or a mint, and thus find that 
distinct image of themselves which is the source of 
their success. 

The chief controversy between Nikhil and myself 
arises from this : that though I say ‘ know thyself,' and 
Nikhil also says ‘know thyself,' his interpretation 
makes this ‘ knowing ' tantamount to ‘ not knowing.' 

‘ Winning your kind of success,' Nikhil once ob- 
jected, ‘ is success gained at the cost of the soul ; but 
the soul is greater than success.' 


loo THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I simply said in answer: ‘Your words are too 
vague.’ 

‘ That I cannot help/ Nikhil replied. ‘ A machine 
'is distinct enough, but not so life. If to gain distinct- 
ness you try to know life as a machine, then such mere 
distinctness cannot stand for truth. The soul is not 
as distinct as success, and so you only lose your soul 
if you seek it in your success.’ 

‘ Where, then, is this wonderful soul ? ’ 

‘ Where it knows itself in the infinite and transcends 
its success.’ 

‘ But how does all this apply to our work for the 
country ? ’ 

‘ It is the same thing. Where our country makes 
itself the final object, it gains success at the cost of the 
soul. Where it recognises the Greatest as greater than 
all, there it may miss success, but gains its soul.’ 

‘ Is there any example of this in history ? ’ 

‘ Man is so great that he can despise not only the 
success, but also the example. Possibly example is 
lacking, just as there is no example of the flower in 
the seed. But there is the urgence of the flower in 
the seed all the same.’ 

It is not that I do not at all understand Nikhil’s 
point of view ; that is rather where my danger lies. I 
was born in India and the poison of its spirituality 
runs in my blood. However loudly I may proclaim 


SANDIP’S STORY 


lOI 


the madness of walking in the path of self-abnegation, 
I cannot avoid it altogether. 

This is exactly how such curious anomalies happen 
nowadays in our country. We must have our religion 
and also our nationalism; our Bhagavadgita and also 
our Bande Mataram. The result is that both of them 
suffer. It is like performing with an English military 
band, side by side with our Indian festive pipes. I 
must make it the purpose of my life to put an end to 
this hideous confusion. 

I want the western military style to prevail, not the 
Indian. We shall then not be ashamed of the flag of 
our passion, which mother Nature has sent with us as 
our standard into the battlefield of life. Passion is 
beautiful and pure, — ^pure as the lily that comes out of 
the slimy soil. It rises superior to its defilement and 
needs no Pears’ soap to wash it clean. 

V 

A question has been worrying me the last few days. 
Why am I allowing my life to become entangled with 
Bimala’s? Am I a drifting log to be caught up at any 
and every obstacle? 

Not that I have any false shame at Bimala becoming 
an object of my desire. It is only too clear how she 
wants me, and so I look on her as quite legitimately 
mine. The fruit hangs on the branch by the stem, but 


102 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


that is no reason why the claim of the stem should be 
eternal. Ripe fruit cannot for ever swear by its slack- 
ening stem-hold. All its sweetness has been accumu- 
lated for me; to surrender itself to my hand is the 
reason of its existence, its very nature, its true moral- 
ity. So I must pluck it, for it becomes me not to make 
it futile. 

But what is teasing me is that I am getting en- 
tangled. Am I not born to rule? — to bestride my 
proper steed, the crowd, and drive it as I will; the 
reins in my hand, the destination known only to me, 
and for it the thorns, the mire, on the road ? This steed 
now awaits me at the door, pawing and champing its 
bit, its neighing filling the skies. But where am I, and 
what am I about, letting day after day of golden op- 
portunity slip by? 

I used to think I was like a storm, — ^that the torn 
flowers with which I strewed my path would not im- 
pede my progress. But I am only wandering round 
and round a flower like a bee, — not a storm. So, as I 
was saying, the colouring of ideas which man gives 
himself is only superficial. The inner man remains as 
ordinary as ever. If someone, who could see right 
into me, were to write my biography, he would make 
me out to be no different from that lout of a Panchu, 
or even from Nikhil! 

Last night I was turning over the pages of my old 


SANDIP’S STORY 


103 


diary ... I had just graduated, and my brain was 
bursting with philosophy. Even so early I had vowed 
not to harbor any illusions, whether of my own or 
others’ imagining, but to build my life on a solid basis 
of reality. But what has since been its actual story? 
Where is its solidity? It has rather been a network, 
where, though the thread be continuous, more space is 
taken up by the holes. Fight as I may, these will not 
own defeat. Just as I was congratulating myself on 
steadily following the thread, here I am badly caught 
in a hole ! For I have become susceptible to compunc- 
tions. 

want it; it is here; let me take it.’ — This is a 
clear-cut, straightforward policy. Those who can 
pursue its course with vigour needs must win through 
in the end. But the gods would not have it that such 
journey should be easy, so they have deputed the siren 
Sympathy to distract the wayfarer, to dim his vision 
with her tearful mist. 

I can see that poor Bimala is struggling like a snared 
deer. What a piteous alarm there is in her eyes ! How 
she is torn with straining at her bonds ! This sight, of 
course, should gladden the heart of a true hunter. And 
so do I rejoice; but, then, I am also touched; and there- 
fore I dally, and standing on the brink I am hesitating 
to pull the noose fast. 

There have been moments, I know, when I could 


104 the home and the world 


have bounded up to her, clasped her hands and folded 
her to my breast, unresisting. Had I done so, she 
would not have said one word. She was aware that 
some crisis was impending, which in a moment would 
change the meaning of the whole world. Standing be- 
fore that cavern of the incalculable but yet expected, 
her face went pale and her eyes glowed with a fearful 
ecstasy. Within that moment, when it arrives, an 
eternity will take shape, which our destiny awaits, hold- 
ing its breath. 

But I have let this moment slip by. I did not, with 
uncompromising strength, press the almost certain into 
the absolutely assured. I now see clearly that some 
hidden elements in my nature have openly ranged 
themselves as obstacles in my path. 

That is exactly how Ravana, whom I look upon as 
the real hero of the Ramayana, met with his doom. He 
kept Sita in his Asoka garden, awaiting her pleasure, 
instead of taking her straight into his harem. This 
weak spot in his otherwise grand character made the 
whole of the abduction episode futile. Another such 
touch of compunction made him disregard, and be 
lenient to, his traitorous brother Bibhisan, only to get 
himself killed for his pains. 

Thus does the tragic in life come by its own. In the 
beginning it lies, a little thing, in some dark under- 
vault, and ends by overthrowing the whole superstruc- 


SANDIP’S STORY 


loS 

ture. The real tragedy is, that man does not know 
himself for what he really is. 

VI 

Then again there is Nikhil. Crank though he be, 
laugh at him as I may, I cannot get rid of the idea 
that he is my friend. At first I gave no thought to his 
point of view, but of late it has begun to shame and 
hurt me. Therefore I have been trying to talk and 
argue with him in the same enthusiastic way as of old, 
but it does not ring true. It is even leading me at times 
into such a length of unnaturalness as to pretend to 
agree with him. But such hypocrisy is not in my 
nature, nor in that of Nikhil either. This, at least, is 
something we have in common. That is why, nowa- 
days, I would rather not come across him, and have 
taken to fighting shy of his presence. 

All these are signs of weakness. No sooner is the 
possibility of a wrong admitted than it becomes actual, 
and clutches you by the throat, however you may then 
try to shake off all belief in it. What I should like to 
be able to tell Nikhil frankly is, that happenings such 
as these must be looked in the face — as great Realities 
— and that which is the Truth should not be allowed to 
stand between true friends. 

There is no denying that I have really weakened. It 
was not this weakness which won over Bimala; she 


io6 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


burnt her wings in the blaze of the full strength of my 
unhesitating manliness. Whenever smoke obscures its 
lustre she also becomes confused, and draws back. 
Then comes a thorough revulsion of feeling, and she 
fain would take back the garlands she has put round 
my neck, but cannot; and so she only closes her eyes, 
to shut it out of sight. 

But all the same I must not swerve from the path I 
have chalked out. It would never do to abandon the 
cause of the country, especially at the present time. 
I shall simply make Bimala one with my country. The 
turbulent west wind which has swept away the coun- 
try’s veil of conscience, will sweep away the veil of 
the wife from Bimala’s face, and in that uncovering 
there will be no shame. The ship will rock as it bears 
the crowd across the ocean, flying the pennant of Bande 
Mataram, and it will serve as the cradle to my power, 
as well as to my love. 

Bimala will sec such a majestic vision of- deliver- 
ance, that her bonds will slip from about her, without 
shame, without her even being aware of it. Fascinated 
by the beauty of this terrible wrecking power, she will 
not hesitate a moment to be cruel. I have seen in 
Bimala’s nature the cruelty which is the inherent force 
of existence, — ^the cruelty which with its unrelenting 
might keeps the world beautiful. 

If only women could be set free from the artificial 


SAISIDIP^S STORY 


107 


fetters put round them by men, we could see on earth 
the living image of Kali, the shameless, pitiless goddess. 
I am a worshipper of Kali, and one day I shall truly 
worship her, setting Bimala on her altar of Destruc- 
tion. For this let me get ready. 

The way of retreat is absolutely closed for both of 
us. We shall despoil each other: get to hate each 
other: but never more be free. 


CHAPTER V 


nikhil's story 

IV 

Everything is rippling and waving with the flood of 
August. The young shoots of rice have the sheen of 
an infant’s limbs. The water has invaded the garden 
next to our house. The morning light, like the love of 
the blue sky, is lavished upon the earth. . . . Why can- 
not I sing? The water of the distant river is shimmer- 
ing with light ; the leaves are glistening ; the rice-fields, 
with their fitful shivers, break into gleams of gold ; and 
in this symphony of Autumn, only I remain voiceless. 
The sunshine of the world strikes my heart, but is not 
reflected back. 

When I realise the lack of expressiveness in myself, 
I know why I am deprived. Who could bear my com- 
pany day and night without a break? Bimala is full 
of the energy of life, and so she has never become stale 
to me for a moment, in all these nine years of our 
wedded life. 

My life has only its dumb depths; but no murmuring 
rush. I can only receive : not impart movement. And 
therefore my company is like fasting. I recognise 

io8 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


109 

clearly to-day that Bimala has been languishing because 
of a famine of companionship. 

Then whom shall I blame? Like Vidyapati I can 
only lament : 

It is August, the sky breaks into a passionate rain; 

Alas, empty is my house. 

My house, I now see, was built to remain empty, 
because its doors cannot open. But I never knew till 
now that its divinity had been sitting outside. I had 
fondly believed that she had accepted my sacrifice, and 
granted in return her boon. But, alas, my house has 
all along been empty. 

Every year, about this time, it was our practice to 
go in a house-boat over the broads of Samalda. I used 
to tell Bimala that a song must come back to its refrain 
over and over again. The original refrain of every 
song is in Nature, where the rain-laden wind passes 
over the rippling stream, where the green earth, draw- 
ing its shadow-veil over its face, keeps its ear close to 
the speaking water. There, at the beginning of time, 
a man and a woman first met, — not within walls. And 
therefore we two must come back to Nature, at least 
once a year, to tune our love anew to the first pure 
note of the meeting of hearts. 

The first two anniversaries of our married life I 
spent in Calcutta, where I went through my examina- 
tions. But from the next year onwards, for seven 


no THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


years without a break, we have celebrated our union 
among the blossoming water-lilies. Now begins the 
next octave of my life. 

It was difficult for me to ignore the fact that the 
same month of August had come round again this 
year. Does Bimala remember it, I wonder? — she has 
given me no reminder. Everything is mute about me. 

It is August, the sky breaks into a passionate rain; 

And empty is my house. 

The house which becomes empty through the parting 
of lovers, still has music left in the heart of its empti- 
ness. But the house that is empty because hearts are 
asunder, is awful in its silence. Even the cry of pain is 
out of place there. 

This cry of pain must be silenced in me. So long as 
I continue to suffer, Bimala will never have true free- 
dom. I must free her completely, otherwise I shall 
never gain my freedom from untruth. . . . 

I think I have come to the verge of understanding 
one thing. Man has so fanned the flame of the loves 
of men and women, as to make it overpass its rightful 
domain, and now, even in the name of humanity itself, 
he cannot bring it back under control. Man’s worship 
has idolised his passion. But there must be no more 
human sacrifices at its shrine. . . . 

I went into my bedroom this morning, to fetch a 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


III 


book. It is long since I have been there in the day- 
time. A pang passed through me as I looked round it 
to-day, in the morning light. On the clothes rack was 
hanging a sari of Bimala’s, crinkled ready for wear. 
On the dressing-table were her perfumes, her comb, her 
hair-pins, and with them, still, her vermilion box! 
Underneath were her tiny gold-embroidered slippers. 

Once, in the old days, when Bimala had not yet 
overcome her objections to shoes, I had got these out 
from Lucknow, to tempt her. The first time she was 
ready to drop for very shame, to go in them even from 
the room to the verandah. Since then she has worn 
out many shoes, but has treasured up this pair. When 
first showing her the slippers, I chaffed her over a 
curious practice of hers ; ‘ I have caught you taking the 
dust of my feet, thinking me asleep! These are the 
offerings of my worship to ward the dust off the feet 
of my wakeful divinity.’ ‘You must not say such 
things,’ she protested, ‘or I will never wear your 
shoes ! ’ 

This bedroom of mine, — it has a subtle atmosphere 
which goes straight to my heart. I was never aware, 
as I am to-day, how my thirsting heart has been send- 
ing out its roots to cling round each and every familiar 
object. The severing of the main root, I see, is not 
enough to set life free. Even these little slippers serve 
to hold one back. 


II2 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

My wandering eyes fall on the niche. My portrait 
there is looking the same as ever, in spite of the flowers 
scattered round it having been withered black! Of all 
the things in the room their greeting strikes me as sin- 
cere. They are still here simply because it was not felt 
worth while even to remove them. Never mind; let 
me welcome truth, albeit in such sere and sorry garb, 
and look forward to the time when I shall be able to 
do so unmoved, as does my photograph. 

As I stood there, Bimal came in from behind. I 
hastily turned my eyes from the niche to the shelves as 
I muttered: ‘I came to get Amiel’s Journal.’ What 
need had I to volunteer an explanation? I felt like a 
wrong-doer, a trespasser, prying into a secret not meant 
for me. I could not look Bimal in the face, but hur- 
ried away. 

V 

I had just made the discovery that it was useless to 
keep up a pretence of reading in my room outside, and 
also that it was equally beyond me to busy myself at- 
tending to anything at all, — so that all the days of my 
future bid fair to congeal into one solid mass and settle 
heavily on my breast for good, — when Panchu, the 
tenant of a neighboring ^amindar, came up to me with 
a basketful of cocoa-nuts and greeted me with a pro- 
found obeisance. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


113 


* Well, Panchu,’ said I. ‘ What is all this for? ^ 

I had got to know Panchu through my master. He 
was extremely poor, nor was I in a position to do any- 
thing for him ; so I supposed this present was intended 
to procure a tip to help the poor fellow to make both 
ends meet. I took some money from my purse and 
held it out towards him, but with folded hands he pro- 
tested : ‘ I cannot take that, sir ! ’ 

‘ Why, what is the matter ? ’ 

‘ Let me make a clean breast of it, sir. Once, when 
I was hard pressed, I stole some cocoa-nuts from the 
garderi here. I am getting old, and may die any day, 
so I have come to pay them back.’ 

Amiel’s Journal could not have done me any good 
that day. But these words of Panchu lightened my 
heart. There are more things in life than the union 
or separation of man and woman. The great world 
stretches far beyond, and one can truly measure one’s 
own joys and sorrows when standing in its midst. 

Panchu was devoted to my master. I know well 
enough how he manages to eke out a livelihood. He is 
up before dawn every day, and with a basket of pan 
leaves, twists of tobacco, coloured cotton yarn, little 
combs, looking-glasses, and other trinkets beloved of 
the village women, he wades through the knee-deep 
water of the marsh and goes over to the Namasudra 
quarters. There he barters his goods for rice, which 


II4 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


fetches him a little more than their price in money. If 
he can get back soon enough he goes out again, after 
a hurried meal, to the sweetmeat seller’s, where he 
assists in beating sugar for wafers. As soon as he 
comes home he sits at his shell-bangle making, plod- 
ding on often till midnight. All this cruel toil does 
not earn, for himself and his family, a bare two meals 
a day during much more than half the year. His 
method of eating is to begin with a good filling draught 
of water, and his staple food is the cheapest kind of 
seedy banana. And yet the family has to go with only 
one meal a day for the rest of the year. 

At one time I had an idea of making him a charity 
allowance, ‘ But,’ said my master, ‘ your gift may 
destroy the man, it cannot destroy the hardship of his 
lot. Mother Bengal has not only this one Panchu. If 
the milk in her breasts has run dry, that cannot be sup- 
plied from the outside.’ 

These are thoughts which give one pause, and I 
decided to devote myself to working it out. That very 
day I said to Bimal : ‘ Let us dedicate our lives to re- 
moving the root of this sorrow in our country.’ 

* You are my Prince Siddharta,^ I see,’ she replied 
with a smile. ‘ But do not let the torrent of your feel- 
ings end by sweeping me away also ! ’ 

^The name by which Buddha was known when a Prince, be- 
fore renouncing the world. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


IIS 

* Siddharta took his vows alone. I want ours to be 
a joint arrangement.’ 

The idea passed away in talk. The fact is, Bimala 
is at heart what is called a * lady.’ Though her own 
people are not well off, she was born a Rani. She 
has no doubts in her mind that there is a lower unit of 
measure for the trials and troubles of the ‘ lower 
classes.’ Want is, of course, a permanent feature of 
their lives, but does not necessarily mean ‘ want ’ to 
them. Their very smallness protects them, as the 
banks protect the pool; by widening bounds only the 
slime is exposed. 

The real fact is that Bimala has only come into my 
home, not into my life. I had magnified her so, leav- 
ing her such a large place, that when I lost her, my 
whole way of life became narrow and confined. I had 
thrust aside all other objects into a corner to make 
room for Bimala, — ^taken up as I was with decorating 
her and dressing her and educating her and moving 
round her day and night; forgetting how great is hu- 
manity and how nobly precious is man’s life. When 
the actualities of everyday things get the better of the 
man, then is Truth lost sight of and freedom missed. 
So painfully important did Bimala make the mere 
actualities, that the truth remained concealed from me. 
That is why I find no gap in my misery, and spread 
this minute point of my emptiness over all the world. 


ii6 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


And so, for hours on this Autumn morning, the re- 
frain has been humming in my ears : 

It is the month of August, and the sky breaks into a passionate 
rain; 

Alas, my house is empty. 

BIMALA^S STORY 
XI 

The change which had, in a moment, come over the 
mind of Bengal was tremendous. It was as if the 
Ganges had touched the ashes of the sixty thousand 
sons of Sagar^ which no fire could enkindle, no other 
water knead again into living clay. The ashes of life- 
less Bengal suddenly spoke up : ‘ Here am L’ 

I have read somewhere that in ancient Greece a 
sculptor had the good fortune to impart life to the 
image made by his own hand. Even in that miracle, 
however, there was the process of form preceding life. 
But where was the unity in this heap of barren ashes ? 
Had they been hard like stone, we might have had 
hopes of some form emerging, even as Ahalya, though 
turned to stone, at last won back her humanity. But 
these scattered ashes must have dropped to the dust 
through gaps in the Creator’s fingers, to be blown hither 

^ The condition of the curse which had reduced them to ashes 
was such that they could only be restored to life if the stream of 
the Ganges was brought down to them. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


117 

and thither by the wind. They had become heaped up, 
but were never before united. Yet in this day which 
had come to Bengal, even this collection of looseness 
had taken shape, and proclaimed in a thundering voice, 
at our very door : ‘ Here I am.’ 

How could we help thinking that it was all super- 
natural? This moment of our history seemed to have 
dropped into our hand like a jewel from the crown of 
some drunken god. It had no resemblance to our past ; 
and so we were led to hope that all our wants and mis- 
eries would disappear by the spell of some magic charm, 
that for us there was no longer any boundary line be- 
tween the possible and the impossible. Everything 
seemed to be saying to us : ‘ It is coming ; it has come 1 ’ 

Thus we came to cherish the belief that our history 
needed no steed, but that like heaven’s chariot it would 
move with its own inherent power. — At least no wages 
would have to be paid to the charioteer; only his wine 
cup would have to be filled again and again. And then 
in some impossible paradise the goal of our hopes 
would be reached. 

My husband was not altogether unmoved, but 
through all our excitement it was the strain of sadness 
in him which deepened and deepened. He seemed to 
have a vision of something beyond the surging present. 

I remember one day, in the course of the arguments 
he continually had with Sandip, he said : ‘ Good for- 


ii8 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


tune comes to our gate and announces itself, only to 
prove that we have not the power to receive it, — that 
we have not kept things ready to be able to invite it 
into our house/ 

‘ No,’ was Sandip’s answer. * You talk like an athe- 
ist because you do not believe in our gods. To us it 
has been made quite visible that the Goddess has come 
with her boon, yet you distrust the obvious signs of her 
presence.’ 

‘ It is because I strongly believe in my God,’ said my 
husband, ‘ that I feel so certain that our preparations 
for his worship are lacking. God has power to give 
the boon, but we must have power to accept it.’ 

This kind of talk from my husband would only an- 
noy me. I could not keep from joining in : ‘You think 
this excitement is only a fire of drunkenness, but does 
not drunkenness, up to a point, give strength ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ my husband replied. ‘ It may give strength, 
but not weapons.’ 

‘ But strength is the gift of God,’ I went on. ‘Weap- 
ons can be supplied by mere mechanics.’ 

My husband smiled. ‘ The mechanics will claim 
their wages before they deliver their supplies,’ he said. 

Sandip swelled his chest as he retorted : ‘ Don’t you 
trouble about that. Their wages shall be paid.’ 

‘ I shall bespeak the festive music when the payment 
has been made, not before,’ my husband answered. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


119 

‘ You needn’t imagine that we are depending on 
your bounty for the music,’ said Sandip scornfully. 
‘ Our festival is above all money payments.’ 

And in his thick voice he began to sing : 

‘ My Lover of the unpriced love, spurning payments, 

Plays upon the simple pipe, bought for nothing. 

Drawing my heart away.* 

Then with a smile he turned to me and said: ‘ If I 
sing, Queen Bee, it is only to prove that when music 
comes into one’s life, the lack of a good voice is no 
matter. When we sing merely on the strength of our 
tunefulness, the song is belittled. Now that a full 
flood of music has swept over our country, let Nikhil 
practise his scales, while we rouse the land with our 
cracked voices : 

‘ My house cries to me : Why go out to lose your all ? 

My life says : All that you have, fling to the winds I 

If we must lose our all, let us lose it: what is it worth, 
after all? 

If I must court ruin, let me do it smilingly: 

For my quest is the death-draught of immortality. 

‘ The truth is, Nikhil, that we have all lost our 
hearts. None can hold us any longer within the bounds 
of the easily possible, in our forward rush to the hope- 
lessly impossible. 

‘Those who would draw us back. 

They know not the fearful joy of recklessness. 

They know not that we have had our call 


120 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


From the end of the crooked path. 

All that is good and straight and trim, — 

Let it topple over in the dust.’ 

I thought that my husband was going to continue 
the discussion, but he rose silently from his seat and 
left us. 

The thing that was agitating me within was merely 
a variation of the stormy passion outside, which swept 
the country from one end to the other. The car of the 
wielder of my destiny was fast approaching, and the 
sound of its wheels reverberated in my being. I had 
a constant feeling that something extraordinary might 
happen any moment, for which, however, the responsi- 
bility would not be mine. Was I not removed from 
the plane in which right and wrong, and the feel- 
ings of others, have to be considered? Had I ever 
wanted this, — ^had I ever been waiting or hoping for 
any such thing? Look at my whole life and tell me 
then, if I was in any way accountable. 

Through all my past I had been consistent in 
my devotion, — ^but when at length it came to receiving 
the boon, a different god appeared! And just as the 
awakened country, with its Bande M afar am, thrills in 
salutation to the unrealised future before it, so do all 
my veins and nerves send forth shocks of welcome to 
the unthought of, the unknown, the importunate 
Stranger. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


121 


One night I left my bed and slipped out of my room 
on to the open terrace. Beyond our garden wall are 
fields of ripening rice. Through the gaps in the village 
groves to the North, glimpses of the river are seen. 
The whole scene slept in the darkness like the vague 
embryo of some future creation. 

In that future I saw my country, a woman like my- 
self, standing expectant. She has been drawn forth 
from her home corner by the sudden call of some Un- 
known. She has had no time to pause or ponder, or to 
light herself a torch, as she rushes forward into the 
darkness ahead. I know well how her very soul re- 
sponds to the distant flute-strains which call her; how 
her breast rises and falls; how she feels she nears it, 
nay it is already hers, so that it matters not even if she 
run blindfold. She is no mother. There is no call to 
her of children in their hunger, no home to be lighted 
of an evening, no household work to be done. No; she 
hies to her tryst, for this is the land of the Vaishnava 
Poets. She has left home, forgotten domestic duties; 
she has nothing but an unfathomable yearning which 
hurries her on, — ^by what road, to what goal, she recks 
not. 

I, also, am possessed of just such a yearning. I like- 
wise have lost my home and also lost my way. Both 
the end and the means have become equally shadowy 
to me. There remain only the yearning and the hurry- 


122 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

ing on. Ah! wretched wanderer through the night, 
when the dawn reddens you will see no trace of a way 
to return. But why return ? Death will serve as well. 
If the Dark which sounded the flute should lead to de- 
struction, why trouble about the hereafter? When I 
am merged in its blackness, neither I, nor good and 
bad, nor laughter, nor tears, shall be any more 1 

XII 

In Bengal the machinery of time being thus suddenly 
run at full pressure, things which were difficult became 
easy, one following soon after another. Nothing could 
be held back any more, even in our corner of the coun- 
try. In the beginning our district was backward, for 
my husband was unwilling to put any compulsion on 
the villagers. ‘ Those who make sacrifices for their 
country’s sake are indeed her servants,’ he would say, 
* but those who compel others to make them in her 
name are her enemies. They would cut freedom at the 
root, to gain it at the top.’ 

But when Sandip came and settled here, and his fol- 
lowers began to move about the country, speaking in 
towns and market-places, waves of excitement came 
rolling up to us as well. A band of young fellows of 
the locality attached themselves to him, some even who 
had been known as a disgrace to the village. But the 
glow of their genuine enthusiasm lighted them up. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


123 


within as well as without. It became quite clear that 
when the pure breezes of a great joy and hope sweep 
through the land, all dirt and decay are cleansed away. 
It is hard, indeed, for men to be frank and straight 
and healthy, when their country is in the throes of 
dejection. 

Then were all eyes turned on my husband, from 
whose estates alone foreign sugar and salt and cloths 
had not been banished. Even the estate officers began 
to feel awkward and ashamed over it. And yet, some 
time ago, when my husband began to import country- 
made articles into our village, he had been secretly and 
openly twitted for his folly, by old and young alike. 
When Swadeshi had not yet become a boast, we had 
despised it with all our hearts. 

My husband still sharpens his Indian-made pencils 
with his Indian-made knife, does his writing with reed 
pens, drinks his water out of a bell-metal vessel, and 
works at night in the light of an old-fashioned castor- 
oil lamp. But this dull, milk-and-watery Swadeshi of 
his never appealed to us. Rather, we had always felt 
ashamed of the inelegant, unfashionable furniture of 
his reception-rooms, especially when he had the magis- 
trate, or any other European, as his guest. 

My husband used to make light of my protests. 
‘ Why allow such trifles to upset you ? ^ he would say 
with a smile. 


124 the home and the world 

‘ They will think us barbarians, or at all events 
wanting in refinement.’ 

^ If they do, I will pay them back by thinking that 
their refinement does not go deeper than their white 
skins.’ 

My husband had an ordinary brass pot on his writ- 
ing table which he used as a flower- vase. It has often 
happened that, when I had news of some European 
guest, I would steal into his room and put in its place 
a crystal vase of European make. 

‘ Look here, Bimala,’ he objected at length, ‘ that 
brass pot is as unconscious of itself as those blossoms 
are; but this thing protests its purpose so loudly, it is 
only fit for artificial flowers.’ 

The Bara Rani, alone, pandered to my husband’s 
whims. Once she comes panting to say : " Oh, 
brother, have you heard? Such lovely Indian soaps 
have come out! My days of luxury are gone by; still, 
if they contain no animal fat, I should like to try some.’ 

This sort of thing makes my husband beam all over, 
and the house is deluged with Indian scents and soaps. 
Soaps indeed! They are more like lumps of caustic 
soda. And do I not know that what my sister-in-law 
uses on herself are the European soaps of old, while 
these are made over to the maids for washing clothes ? ’ 

Another time it is : ‘ Oh, brother dear, do get me 
some of these new Indian pen-holders.’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


125 

Her ‘ brother ' bubbles up as usual, and the Bara 
Rani’s room becomes littered with all kinds of awful 
sticks that go by the name of Swadeshi pen-holders. 
Not that it makes any difference to her, for reading 
and writing are out of her line. Still, in her writing- 
case, lies the selfsame ivory pen-holder, the only one 
ever handled. 

The fact is, all this was intended as a hit at me, be- 
cause I would not keep my husband company in his 
vagaries. It was no good trying to show up my sister- 
in-law’s insincerity; my husband’s face would set so 
hard, if I barely touched on it. One only gets into 
trouble, trying to save such people from being imposed 
upon! 

The Bara Rani loves sewing. One day I could not 
help blurting out : ‘ What a humbug you are, sister ! 
When your ‘ brother ’ is present, your mouth waters 
at the very mention of Swadeshi scissors, but it 
is the English-made article every time when you 
work.’ 

‘ What harm ? ’ she replied. ‘ Do you not see what 
pleasure it gives him? We have grown up together in 
this house, since he was a boy. I simply cannot bear, 
as you can, the sight of the smile leaving his face. Poor 
dear, he has no amusement except this playing at shop- 
keeping. You are his only dissipation, and you will 
yet be his ruin ! ’ 


126 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘ Whatever you may say, it is not right to be double- 
faced,’ I retorted. 

My sister-in-law laughed out in my face. * Oh, our 
artless little Chota Rani ! — straight as a schoolmaster’s 
rod, eh ? But a woman is not built that way. She is 
soft and supple, so that she may bend without being 
crooked.’ 

I could not forget those words : ‘ You are his dissi- 
pation, and will be his ruin! ’ To-day I feel, — if a man 
needs must have some intoxicant, let it not be a 
woman. 

XIII 

Suksar, within our estates, is one of the biggest trade 
centers in the district. On one side of a stretch of 
water there is held a daily bazar ; on the other, a weekly 
market. During the rains when this piece of water 
gets connected with the river, and boats can come 
through, great quantities of cotton yarns, and woollen 
stuffs for the coming winter, are brought in for sale. 

At the height of our enthusiasm, Sandip laid it down 
that all foreign articles, together with the demon of 
foreign influence, must be driven out of our territory. 

‘ Of course 1 ’ said I, girding myself up for a fight. 

* I have had words with Nikhil about it,’ said Sandip. 
' He tells me, he does not mind speechifying, but he will 
not have coercion.’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


127 


* I will see to that/ I said, with a proud sense of 
power. I knew how deep was my husband’s love for 
me. Had I been in my senses I should have allowed 
myself to be torn to pieces rather than assert my claim 
to that, at such a time. But Sandip had to be im- 
pressed with the full strength of my Shakti, 

Sandip had brought home to me, in his irresistible 
way, how the cosmic Energy was revealed for each 
individual in the shape of some special affinity. Vaish- 
nava Philosophy, he said, speaks of the Shakti of 
Delight that dwells in the heart of creation, ever at- 
tracting the heart of her Eternal Lover. Men have a 
perpetual longing to bring out this Shakti from the 
hidden depths of their own nature, and those of us who 
succeed in doing so at once clearly understand the 
meaning of the music coming to us from the Dark. He 
broke out singing : 

My flute, that was busy with its song, 

Is silent now when we stand face to face. 

My call went seeking you from sky to sky 

When you lay hidden; 

But now all my cry finds its smile 

In the face of my beloved. 

Listening to his allegories, I had forgotten that I was 
plain and simple Bimala. I was Shakti; also an em- 
bodiment of Universal joy. Nothing could fetter me, 
nothing was impossible for me; whatever I touched 
would gain new life. The world around me was a fresh 


128 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

creation of mine; for behold, before my heart’s re- 
sponse had touched it, there had not been this wealth of 
gold in the Autumn sky! And this hero, this true 
servant of the country, this devotee of mine, — this 
flaming intelligence, this burning energy, this shining 
genius, — ^him also was I creating from moment to 
moment. Have I not seen how my presence pours 
fresh life into him time after time? 

The other day Sandip begged me to receive a young 
lad, Amulya, an ardent disciple of his. In a moment 
I could see a new light flash out from the boy’s eyes, 
and knew that he, too, had a vision of SJiakti mani- 
fest, that my creative force had begun its work in his 
blood. ‘ What sorcery is this of yours 1 ’ exclaimed 
Sandip next day. ‘ Amulya is a boy no longer, the 
wick of his life is all ablaze. Who can hide your fire 
under your home-roof? Every one of them must be 
touched up by it, sooner or later, and when every lamp 
is alight what a grand carnival of a Dewali we shall 
have in the country 1 ’ 

Blinded with the brilliance of my own glory I had 
decided to grant my devotee this boon. I was over- 
weeningly confident that none could baulk me of what 
I really wanted. When I returned to my room after 
my talk with Sandip, I loosed my hair and tied it up 
over again. Miss Gilby had taught me a way of brush- 
ing it up from the neck and piling it in a knot over 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


129 


my head. This style was a favourite one with my 
husband. ‘ It is a pity/ he once said, ‘ that Providence 
should have chosen poor me, instead of poet Kalidas, 
for revealing all the wonders of a woman’s neck. The 
poet would probably have likened it to a flower-stem ; 
but I feel it to be a torch, holding aloft the black flame 
of your hair.’ With which he . . . but why, oh why, 
do I go back to all that ? 

I sent for my husband. In the old days I could 
contrive a hundred and one excuses, good or bad, to 
get him to come to me. Now that all this had stopped 
for days I had lost the art of contriving. 

nikhil’s story 

VI 

Panchu’s wife has just died of a lingering con- 
sumption. Panchu must undergo a purification cere- 
mony to cleanse himself of sin and to propitiate his 
community. The community has calculated and in- 
formed him that it will cost one hundred and twenty- 
three rupees. 

‘ How absurd ! ’ I cried, highly indignant. ‘ Don’t 
submit to this, Panchu. What can they do to you ? ’ 

Raising to me his patient eyes like those of a tired- 
out beast of burden, he said : ‘ There is my eldest girl, 
sir, she will have to be married. And my poor wife’s 
last rites have to be put through.’ 


K 


130 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


* Even if the sin were yours, Panchu,’ I mused 
aloud, * you have surely suffered enough for it already/ 

‘ That is so, sir,’ he naively assented. ‘ I had to sell 
part of my land and mortgage the rest to meet the 
doctor’s bills. But there is no escape from the offer- 
ings I have to make the Brahmins.’ 

What was the use of arguing? When will come 
the time, I wondered, for the purification of the Brah- 
mins themselves who can accept such offerings ? 

After his wife’s illness and funeral, Panchu, who 
had been tottering on the brink of starvation, went 
altogether beyond his depth. In a desperate attempt 
to gain consolation of some sort he took to sitting at 
the feet of a wandering ascetic, and succeeded in 
acquiring philosophy enough to forget that his children 
went hungry. He kept himself steeped for a time in 
the idea that the world is vanity, and if of pleasure it 
has none, pain also is a delusion. Then, at last, one 
night he left his little ones in their tumble-down hovel, 
and started off wandering on his own account. 

I knew nothing of this at the time, for just then a 
veritable ocean-churning by gods and demons was 
going on in my mind. Nor did my master tell me that 
he had taken Panchu’s deserted children under his own 
roof and was caring for them, though alone in the 
house, with his school to attend to the whole day. 

After a month Panchu came back, his ascetic fer- 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


131 

vour considerably worn off. His eldest boy and girl 
nestled up to him, crying : ‘ Where have you been all 
this time, father ? ’ His youngest boy filled his lap ; 
his second girl leant over his back with her arms round 
his neck ; and they all wept together. ‘ O sir ! ’ sobbed 
Panchu, at length, to my master. ‘ I have not the 
power to give these little ones enough to eat, — I am not 
free to run away from them. What has been my sin 
that I should be scourged so, bound hand and foot ? ^ 

In the meantime the thread of Panchu’s little trade 
connections had snapped and he found he could not 
resume them. He clung on to the shelter of my mas- 
ter’s roof, which had first received him on his return, 
and said not a word of going back home. ‘ Look here, 
Panchu,’ my master was at last driven to say. ' If 
you don’t take care of your cottage, it will tumble down 
altogether. I will lend you some money with which 
you can do a bit of peddling and return it me little 
by little.’ 

Panchu was not excessively pleased — was there then 
no such thing as charity on earth? And when my 
master asked him to write out a receipt for the money, 
he felt that this favour, demanding a return, was 
hardly worth having. My master, however, did not 
care to make an outward gift which would leave an 
inward obligation. To destroy self-respect is to 
destroy caste, was his idea. 


132 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


After signing the note, Panchu's obeisance to my 
master fell off considerably in its reverence, — the dust- 
taking was left out. It made my master smile; he 
asked nothing better than that courtesy should stoop 
less low. * Respect given and taken truly balances the 
account between man and man,’ was the way he put 
it, ‘ but veneration is overpayment.’ 

Panchu began to buy cloth at the market and peddle 
it about the village. He did not get much of cash 
payment, it is true, but what he could realise in kind, 
in the way of rice, jute, and other field produce, went 
towards settlement of his account. In two months’ 
time he was able to pay back an instalment of my mas- 
ter’s debt, and with it there was a corresponding reduc- 
tion in the depth of his bow. He must have begun to 
feel that he had been revering as a saint a mere man, 
who had not even risen superior to the lure of lucre. 

While Panchu was thus engaged, the full shock of 
the Swadeshi flood fell on him. 

VII 

It was vacation time, and many youths of our village 
and its neighbourhood had come home from their 
schools and colleges. They attached themselves to 
Sandip’s leadership with enthusiasm, and some, in their 
excess of zeal, gave up their studies altogether. Many 
of the boys had been free pupils of my school here, 


NIKHEL^S STORY 


133 


and some held college scholarships from me in Cal- 
cutta. They came up in a body, and demanded that 
I should banish foreign goods from my Suksar market. 

I told them I could not do it. 

They were sarcastic : ‘ Why, Maharaja, will the loss 
be too much for you ? ’ 

I took no notice of the insult in their tone, and was 
about to reply that the loss would fall on the poor 
traders and their customers, not on me, when my 
master, who was present, interposed. 

‘ Yes, the loss will be his, — not yours, that is clear 
enough,’ he said. 

‘ But for one’s country . . . ’ 

‘ The country does not mean the soil, but the men on 
it,’ interrupted my master again. ‘ Have you yet 
wasted so much as a glance on what was happening to 
them? But now you would dictate what salt they 
shall eat, what clothes they shall wear. Why should 
they put up with such tyranny, and why should we 
let them? ’ 

‘ But we have taken to Indian salt and sugar and 
cloth ourselves.’ 

‘ You may do as you please to work off your irrita- 
tion, to keep up your fanaticism. You are well off, 
you need not mind the cost. The poor do not want 
to stand in your way, but you insist on their submit- 
ting to your compulsion. As it is, every moment of 


134 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


theirs is a life-and-death struggle for a bare living; 
you cannot even imagine the difference a few pice 
means to them, — so little have you in common. You 
have spent your whole past in a superior compart- 
ment, and now you come down to use them as tools 
for the wreaking of your wrath. I call it cowardly.* 

They were all old pupils of my master, so they did 
not venture to be disrespectful, though they were quiv- 
ering with indignation. They turned to me. ‘ Will 
you then be the only one, Maharaja, to put obstacles 
in the way of what the country would achieve? * 

‘Who am I, that I should dare do such a thing? 
Would I not rather lay down my life to help it? * 

The M.A. student smiled a crooked smile, as he 
asked : ‘ May we enquire what you are actually doing 
to help ? * 

‘ I have imported Indian mill-made yam and 
kept it for sale in my Suksar market, and also sent 
bales of it to markets belonging to neighbouring 
samindars/ 

‘ But we have been to your market, Maharaja,* the 
same student exclaimed, ‘ and found nobody buying 
this yam.* 

‘ That is neither my fault, nor the fault of my 
market. It only shows the whole country has not 
taken your vow.* 

‘ That is not all,* my master went on. ‘ It shows 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


135 


that what you have pledged yourselves to do is only 
to pester others. You want dealers, who have not 
taken your vow, to buy that yarn ; weavers, who have 
not taken your vow, to make it up; then their wares 
eventually to be foisted on to consumers who, also, 
have not taken your vow. The method? Your 
clamour, and the samindar^s oppression. The result: 
all righteousness yours, all privations theirs ! ’ 

‘ And may we venture to ask, further, what your 
share of the privation has been?' pursued a science 
student. 

‘You want to know, do you?' replied my master. 

‘ It is Nikhil himself who has to buy up that Indian 
mill yarn ; he has had to start a weaving school to get 
it woven; and to judge by his past brilliant business 
exploits, by the time his cotton fabrics leave the loom 
their cost will be that of cloth-of-gold ; so they will 
only find a use, perhaps, as curtains for his drawing- 
room, even though their flimsiness may fail to screen 
him. When you get tired of your vow, you will 
laugh the loudest at their artistic effect. And if their 
workmanship is ever truly appreciated at all, it will 
be by foreigners.' 

I have known my master all my life, but never seen 
him so agitated. I could see that the pain had been 
silently accumulating in his heart for some time, be- 
cause of his surpassing love for me, and that his 


136 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

habitual self-possession had become secretly under- 
mined to the breaking point. 

‘ You are our elders/ said the medical student. * It 
is unseemly that we should bandy words with you. 
But tell us, pray, finally, are you determined not to 
oust foreign articles from your market? * 

* I will not,^ I said, ‘ because they are not mine.’ 

‘ Because that will cause you a loss ! ’ smiled the 
M.A. student. 

* Because he, whose is the loss, is the best judge,* 
retorted my master. 

With a shout of Bande Mataram they left us. 


CHAPTER VI 

NIKHIL^S STORY 
VIII 

A FEW days later, my master brought Panchu round 
to me. His samindar, it appeared, had fined him a 
hundred rupees, and was threatening him with eject- 
ment. 

‘ For what fault? ’ I enquired. 

‘ Because,* I was told, ‘ he has been found selling 
foreign cloths. He begged and prayed Harish Kundu, 
his samindar, to let him sell off his stock, bought with 
borrowed money, promising faithfully never to do it 
again; but the zamindar would not hear of it, and 
insisted on his burning the foreign stuff there and then, 
if he wanted to be let off. Panchu in his desperation 
blurted out defiantly: ‘‘I can’t afford it! You are 
rich ; why not buy it up and burn it ? ” This only made 
Harish Kundu red in the face as he shouted: ‘‘The 
scoundrel must be taught manners, , give him a shoe- 
beating ! ” So poor Panchu got insulted as well as 
fined.’ 

‘ What happened to the cloth? ’ 

‘ The whole bale was burnt.’ 

‘ Who else was there ? ’ 


137 


138 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘ Any number of people, who all kept shouting 
Bande Mataram. Sandip was also there. He took up 
some of the ashes, crying : “ Brothers ! This is the first 
funeral pyre lighted by your village in celebration of 
the last rites of foreign commerce. These are sacred 
ashes. Smear yourselves with them in token of your 
Swadeshi vow.” ’ 

‘ Panchu,’ said I, turning to him, ‘ you must lodge a 
complaint.' 

‘ No one will bear me witness,' he replied. 

‘ None bear witness ? — Sandip ! Sandip ! ' 

Sandip came out of his room at my call. ‘ What is 
the matter ? ' he asked. 

‘ Won't you bear witness to the burning of this 
man's cloth ? ' 

Sandip smiled. ^ Of course I shall be a witness in 
the case,' he said. ‘ But I shall be on the opposite 
side.' 

‘ What do you mean,' I exclaimed, ‘ by being a wit- 
ness on this or that side? Will you not bear witness 
to the truth ? ' 

‘ Is the thing which happens the only truth ? ' 

‘ What other truths can there be ? ' 

‘ The things that ought to happen ! The truth we 
must build up will require a great deal of untruth in 
the process. Those who have made their way in the 
world have created truth, not blindly followed it.' 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


139 


‘And so ’ 

‘ And so I will bear what you people are pleased to 
call false witness, as they have done who have created 
empires, built up social systems, founded religious 
organisations. Those who would rule do not dread 
untruths; the shackles of truth are reserved for those 
who will fall under their sway. Have you not read 
history? Do you not know that in the immense caul- 
drons, where vast political developments are simmer- 
ing, imtruths are the main ingredients ? ’ 

‘ Political cookery on a large scale is doubtless 
going on, but ’ 

‘Oh, I know! You, of course, will never do any 
of the cooking. You prefer to be one of those down 
whose throats the hotchpotch which is being cooked 
will be crammed. They will partition Bengal and say 
it is for your benefit. They will seal the doors of 
education and call it raising the standard. But you 
will always remain good boys, snivelling in your cor- 
ners. We bad men, however, must see whether we 
cannot erect a defensive fortification of untruth.^ 

‘ It is no use arguing about these things, Nikhil,^ my 
master interposed. ‘ How can they who do not feel 
the truth within them, realise that to bring it out from 
its obscurity into the light is man’s highest aim, — not 
to keep on heaping material outside ? ’ 

Sarldip laughed. ‘ Right, sir I ’ said he. ‘ Quite a 


140 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

correct speech for a schoolmaster. That is the kind 
of stuff I have read in books; but in the real world I 
have seen that man’s chief business is the accumulation 
of outside material. Those who are masters in the art, 
advertise the biggest lies in their business, enter false 
accounts in their political ledgers with their broadest- 
pointed pens, launch their newspapers daily laden 
with untruths, and send preachers abroad to dissem- 
inate falsehood like flies carrying pestilential germs. 
I am a humble follower of these great ones. When I 
was attached to the Congress party I never hesitated 
to dilute ten per cent of truth with ninety per cent of 
untruth. And now, merely because I have ceased to 
belong to that party, I have not forgotten the basic 
fact that man’s goal is not truth but success.’ 

‘ True success,’ corrected my master. 

‘ Maybe,’ replied Sandip, ‘ but the fruit of true suc- 
cess ripens only by cultivating the field of untruth, after 
tearing up the soil and pounding it into dust. Truth 
grows up by itself like weeds and thorns, and only 
worms can expect to get fruit from it ! ’ With this he 
flung out of the room. 

My master smiled as he looked towards me. ‘ Do 
you know, Nikhil,’ he said, ‘ I believe Sandip is not 
irreligious, — ^his religion is of the obverse side of 
truth, like the dark moon, which is still a moon, for 
all that its light has gone over to the wrong side.’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


141 

* That is why/ I assented, ‘ I have always had 
an affection for him, though we have never been 
able to agree. I cannot contemn him, even now; 
though he has hurt me sorely, and may yet hurt me 
more/ 

‘ I have begun to realise that,’ said my master. ‘ I 
have long wondered how you could go on putting up 
with him. I have, at times, even suspected you of 
weakness. I now see that though you two do not 
rhyme, your rhythm is the same.’ 

‘ Fate seems bent on writing Paradise Lost in blank 
verse, in my case, and so has no use for a rhyming 
friend ! ’ I remarked, pursuing his conceit. 

‘ But what of Panchu? ’ resumed my master. 

* You say Harish Kundu wants to eject him from 
his ancestral holding. Supposing I buy it up and then 
keep him on as my tenant ? ’ 

‘ And his fine ? ’ 

‘ How can the samindar realise that if he becomes 
my tenant ? ’ 

‘ His burnt bale of cloth? ’ 

‘ I will procure him another. I should like to see 
any one interfering with a tenant of mine, for trading 
as he pleases ! ’ 

‘ I am afraid, sir,’ interposed Panchu despondently, 
‘ while you big folk are doing the fighting, the police 
and the law vultures will merrily gather round, and the 


142 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


crowd will enjoy the fun, but when it conies to getting 
killed, it will be the turn of only poor me ! ' 

' Why, what harm can come to you ? ' 

* They will burn down my house, sir, children and 
all!’ 

‘Very well, I will take charge of your children,* 
said my master. ‘ You may go on with any trade 
you like. They shan’t touch you.’ 

That very day I bought up Panchu’s holding and 
entered into formal possession. Then the trouble 
began. 

Panchu had inherited the holding of his grandfather 
as his sole surviving heir. Everybody knew this. 
But at this juncture an aunt turned up from some- 
where, with her boxes and bundles, her rosary, and a 
widowed niece. She ensconced herself in Panchu’s 
home and laid claim to a life interest in all he had. 

Panchu was dumbfounded. ‘ My aunt died long 
ago,’ he protested. 

In reply he was told that he was thinking of his 
uncle’s first wife, but that the former had lost no time 
in taking to himself a second. 

‘ But my uncle died before my aunt,’ exclaimed Pan- 
chu, still more mystified. ‘ Where was the time for 
him to marry again ? ’ 

This was not denied. But Panchu was reminded 
that it had never been asserted that the second wife 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


143 


had come after the death of the first, but the former 
had been married by his uncle during the latter’s life- 
time. Not relishing the idea of living with a co-wife 
she had remained in her father’s house till her hus- 
band’s death, after which she had got religion and re- 
tired to holy Brindaban, whence she was now coming. 
These facts were well known to the officers of Harish 
Kundu, as well as to some of his tenants. And if the 
zaminda'/s summons should be peremptory enough, 
even some of those who had partaken of the marriage 
feast would be forthcoming ! 

IX 

One afternoon, when I happened to be specially 
busy, word came to my office room that Bimala had 
sent for me. I was startled. 

* Who did you say had sent for me ? ’ I asked the 
messenger. 

‘ The Rani Mother.’ 

‘ The Bara Rani ? ’ 

‘ No, sir, the Chota Rani Mother.’ 

The Chota Rani! It seemed a century since I had 
been sent for by her. I kept them all waiting there, 
and went off into the inner apartments. When I 
stepped into our room I had another shock of surprise 
to find Bimala there with a distinct suggestion of being 
dressed up. The room, which from persistent neglect 


144 the home and the world 


had latterly acquired an air of having grown absent- 
minded, had regained something of its old order this 
afternoon. I stood there silently, looking enquiringly 
at Bimala. 

She flushed a little and the fingers of her right hand 
toyed for a time with the bangles on her left arm. 
Then she abruptly broke the silence. ‘ Look here 1 Is 
it right that ours should be the only market in all Ben- 
gal which allows foreign goods ? ’ 

‘ What, then, would be the right thing to do ? ’ I 
asked. 

‘ Order them to be cleared out ! ’ 

‘ But the goods are not mine.’ 

‘ Is not the market yours ? ’ 

‘ It is much more theirs who use it for trade.’ 

‘ Let them trade in Indian goods, then.’ 

‘ Nothing would please me better. But suppose they 
do not ? ’ 

‘Nonsense! How dare they be so insolent? Are 
you not . . . ’ 

‘ I am very busy this afternoon and cannot stop to 
argue it out. But I must refuse to tyrannise.’ 

‘ It would not be tyranny for selfish gain, but for 
the sake of the country.’ 

‘ To tyrannise for the country is to tyrannise over 
the country. But that I am afraid you will never 
understand.’ With this I came away. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


I4S 

All of a sudden the world shone out for me with a 
fresh clearness. I seemed to feel it in my blood, that 
the Earth had lost the weight of its earthiness, and its 
daily task of sustaining life no longer appeared a bur- 
den, as with a wonderful access of power it whirled 
through space telling its beads of days and nights. 
What endless work, and withal what illimitable energy 
of freedom! None shall check it, oh, none can ever 
check it! From the depths of my being an uprush of 
joy, like a waterspout, sprang high to storm the 
skies. 

I repeatedly asked myself the meaning of this out- 
burst of feeling. At first there was no intelligible 
answer. Then it became clear that the bond against 
which I had been fretting inwardly, night and day, had 
broken. To my surprise I discovered that my mind 
was freed from all mistiness. I could see everything 
relating to Bimala as if vividly pictured on a camera 
screen. It was palpable that she had specially dressed 
herself up to coax that order out of me. Till that mo- 
ment, I had never viewed Bimala^s adornment as a 
thing apart from herself. But to-day the elaborate 
manner in which she had done up her hair, in the Eng- 
lish fashion, made it appear a mere decoration. That 
which before had the mystery of her personality about 
it, and was priceless to me, was now out to sell itself 
cheap. 


L 


146 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

As I came away from that broken cage of a bed- 
room, out into the golden sunlight of the open, there 
was the avenue of bauhinias, along the gravelled path 
in front of my verandah, suffusing the sky with a rosy 
flush. A group of starlings beneath the trees were 
noisily chattering away. In the distance an empty 
bullock cart, with its nose on the ground, held up its 
tail aloft, — one of its unharnessed bullocks grazing, 
the other resting on the grass, its eyes dropping for 
very comfort, while a crow on its back was pecking 
away at the insects on its body. 

I seemed to have come closer to the heart-beats of 
the great earth in all the simplicity of its daily life; its 
warm breath fell on me with the perfume of the bau- 
hinia blossoms; and an anthem, inexpressibly sweet, 
seemed to peal forth from this world, where I, in my 
freedom, live in the freedom of all else. 

We, men, are knights whose quest is that freedom 
to which our ideals call us. She who makes for us the 
banner under which we fare forth is the true Woman 
for us. We must tear away the disguise of her who 
weaves our net of enchantment at home, and know her 
for what she is. We must beware of clothing her in 
the witchery of our own longings and imaginings, and 
thus allow her to distract us from our true quest. 

To-day I feel that I shall win through. I have come 
to the gateway of the simple; I am now content to see 


SANDIP’S STORY 


147 


things as they are. I have gained freedom myself; 
I shall allow freedom to others. In my work will be 
my salvation. 

I know that, time and again, my heart will ache, but 
now that I understand its pain in all its truth, I can 
disregard it. Now that I know it concerns only me, 
what after all can be its value? The suffering which 
belongs to all mankind shall be my crown. 

Save me. Truth! Never again let me hanker after 
the false paradise of Illusion. If I must walk alone, 
let me at least tread your path. Let the drum beats of 
Truth lead me to Victory, 

SANDIP's STORY 
VII 

Bimala sent for me that day, but for a time she could 
not utter a word; her eyes kept brimming up to the 
verge of overflowing. I could see at once that she had 
been unsuccessful with Nikhil. She had been so proudly 
confident that she would have her own way, — ^but I 
had never shared her confidence. Woman knows man 
well enough where he is weak, but she is quite unable 
to fathom him where he is strong. The fact is that 
man is as much a mystery to woman as woman is to 
man. If that were not so, the separation of the sexes 
would only have been a waste of Nature’s energy. 


148 THE HOME ANP THE WORLD 


Ah pride, pride ! The trouble was, not that the nec- 
essary thing had failed of accomplishment, but that the 
entreaty, which had cost her such a struggle to make, 
should have been refused. What a wealth of colour 
and movement, suggestion and deception, group them- 
selves round this ‘ me ’ and ‘ mine ’ in woman. That is 
just where her beauty lies, — she is ever so much more 
personal than man. When man was being made, the 
Creator was a schoolmaster, — His bag full of com- 
mandments and principles; but when He came to 
woman. He resigned His headmastership and turned 
artist, with only His brush and paint-box. 

When Bimala stood silently there, flushed and tear- 
ful in her broken pride, like a storm cloud, laden with 
rain and charged with lightning, lowering over the 
horizon, she looked so absolutely sweet that I had to go 
right up to her and take her by the hand. It was 
trembling, but she did not snatch it away. ‘ Bee,’ said 
I, * we two are colleagues, for our aims are one. Let 
us sit down and talk it over.’ 

I led her, unresisting, to a seat. But strange 1 at that 
very point the rush of my impetuosity suffered an 
unaccountable check, — just as the current of the mighty 
Padma, roaring on in its irresistible course, all of a 
sudden gets turned away from the bank it is crumbling 
by some trifling obstacle beneath the surface. When I 
pressed Bimala’s hand my nerves rang music, like 


SANDIP’S STORY 


149 

tuned-up strings; but the symphony stopped short at 
the first movement. 

What stood in the way? Nothing singly; it was a 
tangle of a multitude of things, — nothing definitely pal- 
pable, but only that unaccountable sense of obstruc- 
tion. Anyhow, this much has become plain to me, that 
I cannot swear to what I really am. It is because I am 
such a mystery to my own mind that my attraction for 
myself is so strong! If once the whole of myself 
should become known to me, I would then fling it all 
away, — and reach beatitude! 

As she sat down, Bimala went ashy pale. She, too, 
must have realised what a crisis had come and gone, 
leaving her unscathed. The comet had passed by, but 
the brush of its burning tail had overcome her. To 
help her to recover herself I said : ‘ Obstacles there will 
be, but let us fight them through, and not be down- 
hearted. Is not that best, Queen ? ’ 

Bimala cleared her throat with a little cough, but 
simply to murmur : ‘ Yes.^ 

‘ Let us sketch out our plan of action,’ I continued, 
as I drew a piece of paper and a pencil from my pocket. 

I began to make a list of the workers who had joined 
us from Calcutta and to assign their duties to each. 
Bimala interrupted me before I was through, saying 
wearily: ‘Leave it now; I will join you again this 
evening ’ ; and then she hurried out of the room. It 


ISO THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


was evident she was not in a state to attend to any- 
thing. She must be alone with herself for a while, — 
perhaps lie down on her bed and have a good cry ! 

When she left me, my intoxication began to deepen, 
as the cloud colours grow richer after the sun is down. 
I felt I had let the moment of moments slip by. What 
an awkward coward I had been. She must have left 
me in sheer disgust at my qualms — and she was right 1 

While I was tingling all over with these reflections, 
a servant came in and announced Amulya, one of our 
boys. I felt like sending him away for the time, but 
he stepped in before I could make up my mind. Then 
we fell to discussing the news of the fights which were 
raging in different quarters over cloth and sugar and 
salt; and the air was soon clear of all fumes of intoxi- 
cation. I felt as if awakened from a dream. I leapt 
to my feet feeling quite ready for the fray , — Bande 
Mataram! 

The news was various. Most of the traders who 
were tenants of Harish Kundu had come over to us. 
Many of Nikhifls officials were also secretly on our 
side, pulling the wires in our interest. The Marwari 
shopkeepers were offering to pay a penalty, if only 
allowed to clear their present stocks. Only some 
Mahomedan traders were still obdurate. 

One of them was taking home some German-made 
shawls for his family. These were confiscated and 


SANDIP^S STORY 


151 

burnt by one of our village boys. This had given rise 
to trouble. We offered to buy him Indian woollen 
stuffs in their place. But where were cheap Indian 
woollens to be had. We could not very well indulge 
him in Cashmere shawls ! He came and complained to 
Nikhil, who advised him to go to law. Of course Nik- 
hil's men saw to it that the trial should come to nothing, 
even his law-agent being on our side ! 

The point is, if we have to replace burnt foreign 
clothes with Indian cloth every time, and on the top of 
that fight through a law-suit, where is the money to 
come from? And the beauty of it is that this destruc- 
tion of foreign goods is increasing their demand and 
sending up the foreigner’s profits, — very like what 
happened to the fortunate shopkeeper whose chande- 
liers the nabob delighted in smashing, tickled by the 
tinkle of the breaking glass. 

The next problem is, — since there is no such thing 
as cheap and gaudy Indian woollen stuff, should we be 
rigorous in our boycott of foreign flannels and merinos, 
or make an exception in their favour? 

‘ Look here ! ’ said I at length on the first point, 

‘ We are not going to keep on making presents of In- 
dian stuff to those who have got their foreign pur- 
chases confiscated. The penalty is intended to fall on 
them, not on us. If they go to law, we must retaliate 
by burning down their granaries ! — What startles you. 


152 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

Amulya ? It is not the prospect of a grand illumination 
that delights me! You must remember, this is War. 
If you are afraid of causing suffering, go in for love- 
making, you will never do for this work 1 ’ 

The second problem I solved by deciding to allow no 
compromise with foreign articles, in any circumstance 
whatever. In the good old days, when these gaily col- 
oured foreign shawls were unknown, our peasantry 
used to manage well enough with plain cotton quilts, — 
they must learn to do so again. They may not look as 
gorgeous, but this is not the time to think of looks. 

Most of the boatmen had been won over to refuse to 
carry foreign goods, but the chief of them, Mir j an, 
was still insubordinate. 

‘ Could you not get his boat sunk ? ' I asked our 
manager here. 

‘ Nothing easier, sir,’ he replied. ‘ But what if af- 
terwards I am held responsible ? ’ 

‘ Why be so clumsy as to leave any loophole for re- 
sponsibility ? However, if there must be any, my 
shoulders will be there to bear it.’ 

Mirjan’s boat was tied near the landing-place after 
its freight had been taken over to the market-place. 
There was no one on it, for the manager had arranged 
for some entertainment to which all had been invited. 
After dusk the boat, loaded with rubbish, was holed 
and set adrift. It sank in midstream. 


SANDIP^S STORY 


153 

Mirjan understood the whole thing. He came to 

me in tears to beg for mercy. ‘ I was wrong, sir ’ 

he began. 

‘What makes you realise that all of a sudden?* I 
sneered. 

He made no direct reply. ‘ The boat was worth 
Rs. 2000,* he said. ‘ I now see my mistake, and if ex- 
cused this time I will never ... * with which he threw 
himself at my feet. 

I asked him to come ten days later. If only we could 
pay him that Rs. 2000 at once, we could buy him up 
body and soul. This is just the sort of man who could 
render us immense service, if won over. We shall 
never be able to make any headway unless we can lay 
our hands on plenty of money. 

As soon as Bimala came into the sitting-room, in the 
evening, I said as I rose up to receive her : * Queen ! 
Everything is ready, success is at hand, but we must 
have money.* 

‘ Money ? How much money ? * 

‘Not so very much, but by hook or by crook we 
must have it ! ’ 

‘ But how much ? * 

‘A mere fifty thousand rupees will do for the 
present.* 

Bimala blenched inwardly at the figure, but tried not 
to show it. How could she again admit defeat? 


154 the home AND^ the WORLD 

‘ Queen ! * said I, * you only can make the impossible 
possible. Indeed you have already done so. Oh, that 
I could show you the extent of your achievement, — 
then you would know it. But the time for that is not 
now. Now we want money ! ’ 

‘ You shall have it,’ she said. 

I could see that the thought of selling her jewels had 
occurred to her. So I said : ‘ Your jewels must remain 
in reserve. One can never tell when they may be 
wanted.’ And then, as Bimala stared blankly at me in 
silence, I went on : ^ This money must come from your 
husband’s treasury.’ 

Bimala was still more taken aback. After a long 
pause she said : ‘ But how am I to get his money ? ’ 

‘ Is not his money yours as well ? ’ 

* Ah, no! ’ she said, her wounded pride hurt afresh. 

‘ If not,’ I cried, ‘ neither is it his, but his country’s, 
whom he has deprived of it, in her time of need! ’ 

‘ But how am I to get it ? ’ she repeated. 

‘ Get it you shall and must. You know best how. 
You must get it for Her to whom it rightfully belongs. 
Bande Mataram! These are the magic words which 
will open the door of his iron safe, break through the 
walls of his strong-room, and confound the hearts of 
those who are disloyal to its call. Say Bande Mataram, 
Bee!’ 

^ Bande Mataram! ^ 


CHAPTER VII 

SANDIP'S STORY 
VIII 

We are men, we are kings, we must have our tribute. 
Ever since we have come upon the Earth we have been 
plundering her ; and the more we claimed, the more she 
submitted. From primaeval days have we men been 
plucking fruits, cutting down trees, digging up the 
soil, killing beast, bird and fish. From the bottom of 
the sea, from underneath the ground, from the very 
jaws of death, it has all been grabbing and grabbing 
and grabbing, — no strong-box in Nature’s storeroom 
has been respected or left unrifled. 

The one delight of this Earth is to fulfil the claims 
of those who are men. She has been made fertile and 
beautiful and complete through her endless sacrifices 
to them. But for this, she would be lost in the wilder- 
ness, not knowing herself, the doors of her heart shut, 
her diamonds and pearls never seeing the light. 

Likewise, by sheer force of our claims, we men have 
opened up all the latent possibilities of women. In the 
process of surrendering themselves to us, they have 
ever gained their true greatness. Because they had to 


156 THE HOME AND : THE WORLD 

bring all the diamonds of their happiness and the pearls 
of their sorrow into our royal treasury, they have 
found their true wealth. So for men to accept is truly 
to give : for women to give is truly to gain. 

The demand I have just made from Bimala, how- 
ever, is indeed a large one ! At first I felt scruples ; for 
is it not the habit of man’s mind to be in purposeless 
conflict with itself ? I thought I had imposed too hard a 
task. My first impulse was to call her back, and tell her 
I would rather not make her life wretched by dragging 
her into all these troubles. I forgot, for the moment, 
that it was the mission of man to be aggressive, to make 
woman’s existence fruitful by stirring up disquiet in the 
depth of her passivity, to make the whole world blessed 
by churning up the immeasurable abyss of suffering! 
This is why man’s hands are so strong, his grip so firm. 

Bimala had been longing with all her heart that I, 
Sandip, should demand of her some great sacrifice, — 
should call her to her death. How else could she be 
happy ? Had she not waited all these weary years only 
for an opportunity to weep out her heart, — so satiated 
was she with the monotony of her placid happiness? 
And therefore, at the very first sight of me, her heart’s 
horizon darkened with the rain clouds of her impend- 
ing days of anguish. If I pity her and save her from 
her sorrows, what then was the purpose of my being 
bom a man? 


SANDIP^S STORY 


157 

The real reason of my qualms is that my demand 
happens to be for money. That savours of beggary, 
for money is man’s, not woman’s. That is why I had 
to make it a big figure. A thousand or two would have 
the air of petty theft. Fifty thousand has all the ex- 
panse of romantic brigandage. 

Ah, but riches should really have been mine! So 
many of my desires have had to halt, again and again, 
on the road to accomplishment simply for want of 
money. This does not become me I Had my fate been 
merely unjust, it could be forgiven, — ^but its bad taste 
is unpardonable. It is not simply a hardship that a 
man like me should be at his wit’s end to pay his house 
rent, or should have to carefully count out the coins 
for an Intermediate Class railway ticket, — it is vulgar ! 

It is equally clear that Nikhil’s paternal estates 
are a superfluity to him. For him it would not have 
been at all unbecoming to be poor. He would have 
cheerfully pulled in the double harness of indigent 
mediocrity with that precious master of his. 

I should love to have, just for once, the chance to 
fling about fifty thousand rupees in the service of my 
country and to the satisfaction of myself. I am a 
nabob born, and it is a great dream of mine to get rid 
of this disguise of poverty, though it be for a day only, 
and see myself in my true character. 

I have grave misgivings, however, as to Bimala ever 


158 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


getting that Rs. 50,000 within her reach, and it will 
probably be only a thousand or two which will actually 
come to hand. Be it so. The wise man is content with 
half a loaf, or any fraction for that matter, rather than 
no bread. 

I must return to these personal reflections of mine 
later. News comes that I am wanted at once. Some- 
thing has gone wrong. . . . 

It seems that the police have got a clue to the man 
who sank Mirjan’s boat for us. He was an old of- 
fender. They are on his trail, but he should be too 
practised a hand to be caught blabbing. However, one 
never knows. Nikhil’s back is up, and his manager 
may not be able to have things his own way. 

‘ If I get into trouble, sir,’ said the manager when I 
saw him, ' I shall have to drag you in ! ’ 

‘ Where is the noose with which you can catch me ? ’ 
I asked. 

‘ I have a letter of yours, and several of Amulya 
Babu’s.’ 

I could not see that the letter marked ‘ urgent ’ to 
which I had been hurried into writing a reply was 
wanted urgently for this purpose only! I am getting 
to learn quite a number of things. 

The point now is, that the police must be bribed and 
hush money paid to Mir j an for his boat. It is also 
becoming evident that much of the cost of this patriotic 


SANDIP’S STORY 


159 


venture of ours will find its way as profit into the pock- 
ets of Nikhil’s manager. However, I must shut my 
eyes to that for the present, for is he not shouting 
Bande Mataram as lustily as I am ? 

This kind of work has always to be carried on with 
leaky vessels which let as much through as they fetch 
in. We all have a hidden fund of moral judgment 
stored away within us, and so I was about to wax in- 
dignant with the manager, and enter in my diary a ti- 
rade against the unreliability of our countrymen. But, 
if there be a god, I must acknowledge with gratitude to 
him that he has given me a clear-seeing mind, which 
allows nothing inside or outside it to remain vague. 
I may delude others, but never myself. So I was 
unable to continue angry. 

Whatever is true is neither good nor bad, but simply 
true, and that is Science. A lake is only the remnant 
of water which has not been sucked into the ground. 
Underneath the cult of Bande Mataram, as indeed at 
the bottom of all mundane affairs, there is a region of 
slime, whose absorbing power must be reckoned with. 
The manager will take what he wants ; I also have my 
own wants. These lesser wants form a part of the 
wants of the great Cause, — the horse must be fed and 
the wheels must be oiled if the best progress is to be 
made. 

The long and short of it is that money we must have, 


i6o THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


and that soon. We must take whatever comes the 
readiest, for we cannot afford to wait. I know that 
the immediate often swallows up the ultimate; that 
the Rs. 5000 of to-day may nip in the bud the Rs. 
50,000 of to-morrow. But I must accept the penalty. 
Have I not often twitted Nikhil that they who walk in 
the paths of restraint have never known what sacrifice 
is ? It is we greedy folk who have to sacrifice our greed 
at every step ! 

Of the cardinal sins of man. Desire is for men who 
are men — ^but Delusion, which is only for cowards, 
hampers them. Because delusion keeps them wrapped 
up in past and future, but is the very deuce for con- 
founding their footsteps in the present. Those who 
are always straining their ears for the call of the re- 
mote, to the neglect of the call of the imminent, are like 
Sakuntala ^ absorbed in the memories of her lover. 
The guest comes unheeded, and the curse descends, 
depriving them of the very object of their desire. 

The other day I pressed Bimala’s hand, and that 
touch still stirs her mind, as it vibrates in mine. Its 
thrill must not be deadened by repetition, for then 
what is now music will descend to mere argument. 

1 Sakuntala, after the king, her lover, went back to his king- 
dom, promising to send for her, was so lost in thoughts of him, 
that she failed to hear the call of her hermit guest, who there- 
upon cursed her, saying that the object of her love would forget 
all about her. — Tr. 


SANDIP’S STORY 


i6i 


There is at present no room in her mind for the ques- 
tion ‘ why ? ’ Sol must not deprive Bimala, who is 
one of those creatures for whom illusion is necessary, 
of her full supply of it. 

As for me, I have so much else to do that I shall have 
to be content for the present with the foam of the wine 
cup of passion. O man of desire! Curb your greed, 
and practice your hand on the harp of illusion till you 
can bring out all the delicate nuances of suggestion. 
This is not the time to drain the cup to the dregs. 

IX 

Our work proceeds apace. But though we have 
shouted ourselves hoarse, proclaiming the Mussulmans 
to be our brethren, we have come to realise that we 
shall never be able to bring them wholly round to our 
side. So they must be suppressed altogether and made 
to understand that we are the masters. They are now 
showing their teeth, but one day they shall dance like 
tame bears to the tune we play. 

‘ If the idea of a United India is a true one,’ objects 
Nikhil, ‘ Mussulmans are a necessary part of it.’ 

‘ Quite so,’ said I, ‘ but we must know their place 
and keep them there, otherwise they will constantly 
be giving trouble.’ 

‘ So you want to make trouble to prevent trouble ? ’ 

‘ What, then, is your plan ? ’ 


i 62 the home and the WORLD 


‘ There is only one well-known way of avoiding 
quarrels/ said Nikhil meaningly. 

I know that, like tales written by good people, Nik- 
hil’s discourse always end in a moral. The strange 
part of it is that with all his familiarity with moral pre- 
cepts, he still believes in them! He is an incorrigible 
schoolboy. His only merit is his sincerity. The mis- 
chief with people like him is that they will not admit 
the finality even of death, but keep their eyes always 
fixed on a hereafter. 

I have long been nursing a plan which, if only I could 
carry it out, would set fire to the whole country. True 
patriotism will never be roused in our countrymen un- 
less they can visualise the motherland. We must make 
a goddess of her. My colleagues saw the point at 
once. ‘ Let us devise an appropriate image 1 ^ they ex- 
claimed. ‘ It will not do if you devise it,’ I admonished 
them. * We must get one of the current images ac- 
cepted as representing the country, — the worship of the 
people must flow towards it along the deep-cut grooves 
of custom.’ 

But Nikhil needs must argue even about this. ‘ We 
must not seek the help of illusions,’ he said to me some 
time ago, ‘ for what we believe to be the true cause.’ 

‘ Illusions are necessary for lesser minds,’ I said, 
‘ and to this class the greater portion of the world be- 
longs. That is why divinities are set up in every coun- 


SANDIP’S STORY 163 

try to keep up the illusions of the people, for men are 
only too well aware of their weakness/ 

‘ No,’ he replied. ‘ God is necessary to clear away 
our illusions. The divinities which keep them alive are 
false gods.’ 

‘What of that? If need be, even false gods must 
be invoked, rather than let the work suffer. Unfortu- 
nately for us, our illusions are alive enough, but we do 
not know how to make them serve our purpose. Look 
at the Brahmins. In spite of our treating them as demi- 
gods, and untiringly taking the dust of their feet, they 
are a force going to waste.’ 

‘ There will always be a large class of people, given 
to grovelling, who can never be made to do anything 
unless they are bespattered with the dust of some- 
body’s feet, be it on their heads or on their backs! 
What a pity if after keeping Brahmins saved up in our 
armoury for all these ages, — ^keen and serviceable, — 
they cannot be utilised to urge on this rabble in the 
time of our need.’ 

But it is impossible to drive all this into Nikhil’s 
head. He has such a prejudice in favour of truth, — 
as though there exists such an objective reality! How 
often have I tried to explain to him that where untruth 
truly exists, there it is indeed the truth. This was un- 
derstood in our country in the old days, and so they had 
the courage to declare that for those of little under- 


i64 the home and THE WORLD 


standing untruth is the truth. For them, who can 
truly believe their country to be a goddess, her image 
will do duty for the truth. With our nature and our 
traditions we are unable to realise our country as she 
is, but we can easily bring ourselves to believe in her 
image. Those who want to do real work must not 
ignore this fact. 

Nikhil only got excited. ‘ Because you have lost the 
power of walking in the path of truth’s attainment,’ he 
cried, * you keep waiting for some miraculous boon to 
drop from the skies 1 That is why when your service 
to the country has fallen centuries into arrears all you 
can think of is, to make of it an image and stretch out 
your hands in expectation of gratuitous favours.’ 

‘ We want to perform the impossible,’ I said. ‘ So 
our country needs must be made into a god.’ 

‘ You mean you have no heart for possible tasks,’ 
replied Nikhil. ‘ Whatever is already there is to be 
left undisturbed; yet there must be a supernatural 
result.’ 

‘ Look here, Nikhil,’ I said at length, thoroughly 
exasperated. ‘ The things you have been saying are 
good enough as moral lessons. These ideas have served 
their purpose, as milk for babes, at one stage of man’s 
evolution, but will no longer do, now that man has cut 
his teeth. 

‘ Do we not see before our very eyes how things, of 


SANDIP’S STORY 


165 

which we never even dreamt of sowing the seed, are 
sprouting up on every side? By what power? That 
of the deity in our country who is becoming manifest. 
It is for the genius of the age to give that deity its 
image. Genius does not argue, it creates. I only give 
form to what the country imagines. 

‘ I will spread it abroad that the goddess has vouch- 
safed me a dream. I will tell the Brahmins that they 
have been appointed her priests, and that their down- 
fall has been due to their dereliction of duty in not see- 
ing to the proper performance of her worship. Do you 
say I shall be uttering lies ? No, say I, it is the truth — 
nay more, the truth which the country has so long been 
waiting to learn from my lips. If only I could get the 
opportunity to deliver my message, you would see the 
stupendous result.’ 

‘ What I am afraid of,’ said Nikhil, ‘ is, that my life- 
time is limited and the result you speak of is not the 
final result. It will have after-effects which may not 
be immediately apparent.’ 

‘ I only seek the result,’ said I, ‘ which belongs to 
to-day.’ 

‘ The result I seek,’ answered Nikhil, ‘ belongs to all 
time.’ 

Nikhil may have had his share of Bengal’s greatest 
gift — imagination, but he has allowed it to be over- 
shadowed and nearly killed by an exotic conscientious- 


i66 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


ness. Just look at the worship of Durga which Bengal 
has carried to such heights. That is one of her greatest 
achievements. I can swear that Durga is a political 
goddess and was conceived as the image of the Shakti 
of patriotism in the days when Bengal was praying to 
be delivered from Mussulman domination. What 
other province of India has succeeded in giving such 
wonderful visual expression to the ideal of its quest? 

Nothing betrayed Nikhil’s loss of the divine gift of 
imagination more conclusively than his reply to me. 

‘ During the Mussulman domination,’ he said, ‘ the Ma- 
ratha and the Sikh asked for fruit from the arms which 
they themselves took up. The Bengali contented him- 
self with placing weapons in the hands of his goddess 
and muttering incantations to her; and as his country 
did not really happen to be a goddess the only fruit he 
got was the lopped-off heads of the goats and buffaloes 
of the sacrifice. The day that we seek the good of 
the country along the path of righteousness. He who is 
greater than our country will grant us true fruition.’ 

The unfortunate part of it is that Nikhil’s words 
sound so fine when put down on paper. My words, 
however, are not meant to be scribbled on paper, but 
to be scored into the heart of the country. The Pandit 
records his Treatise on Agriculture in printer’s ink; but 
the cultivator at the point of his plough impresses his 
endeavour deep in the soil. 


SANDIP^S STORY 


167 


X 

When I next saw Bimala I pitched my key high with- 
out further ado. ^ Have we been able/ I began, * to 
believe with all our heart in the god for whose worship 
we have been born all these millions of years, until he 
actually made himself visible to us? 

‘ How often have I told you,’ I continued, ‘ that had 
I not seen you I never would have known all my coun- 
try as One. I know not yet whether you rightly under- 
stand me. The gods are invisible only in their heaven, 
— on earth they show themselves to mortal men.’ 

Bimala looked at me in a strange kind of way as she 
gravely replied : ‘ Indeed I understand you, Sandip.’ 
This was the first time she called me plain Sandip. 

* Krishna,’ I continued, ‘ whom Arjuna ordinarily 
knew only as the driver of his chariot, had also His 
universal aspect, of which, too, Arjuna had a vision 
one day, and that day he saw the Truth. I have seen 
your Universal Aspect in my country. The Ganges 
and the Brahmaputra are the chains of gold that wind 
round and round your neck; in the woodland fringes 
on the distant banks of the dark waters of the river, I 
have seen your collyrium-darkened eyelashes ; the 
changeful sheen of your sari moves for me in the play 
of light and shade amongst the swaying shoots of 
green corn : and the blazing summer heat, which makes 


i68 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


the whole sky lie gasping like a red-tongued lion in the 
desert, is nothing but your cruel radiance. 

‘ Since the goddess has vouchsafed her presence to 
her votary in such wonderful guise, it is for me to pro- 
claim her worship throughout our land, and then shall 
the country gain new life. ‘‘ Your image make we in 
temple after temple.” ^ But this our people have not 
yet fully realised. So I would call on them in your 
name and offer for their worship an image from which 
none shall be able to withhold belief. Oh, give me this 
boon, this power. ^ 

Bimala’s eyelids drooped and she became rigid in her 
seat like a figure of stone. Had I continued she would 
have gone off into a trance. When I ceased speaking 
she opened wide her eyes, and murmured with fixed 
gaze, as though still dazed: ‘ O Traveller in the path 
of Destruction ! Who is there that can stay your prog- 
ress? Do I not see that none shall stand in the way of 
your desires? Kings shall lay their crowns at your 
feet; the wealthy shall hasten to throw open their 
treasure for your acceptance ; those who have nothing 
else shall beg to be allowed to offer their lives. Oh, my 
king, my god ! What you have seen in me I know not, 
but I have seen the immensity of your grandeur in my 
heart. Who am I, what am I, in its presence ? Ah, the 

line from Bankim Chatterjee's national song * Bande 
Mataramf 


SANDIP’S STORY 


169 


awful power of Devastation! Never shall I truly live 
till it kills me utterly 1 I can bear it no longer, my heart 
is breaking I ’ 

Bimala slid down from her seat and fell at my feet, 
which she clasped, and then she sobbed and sobbed and 
sobbed. 

This is hypnotism indeed, — the charm which can 
subdue the world! No materials, no weapons, — ^but 
just the delusion of irresistible suggestion. Who says 
‘Truth shall Triumph?’^ Delusion shall win in the 
end. The Bengali understood this when he conceived 
the image of the ten-handed goddess astride her lion, 
and spread her worship in the land. Bengal must now 
create a new image to enchant and conquer the world. 
Bande Mataram! 

I gently lifted Bimala back into her chair, and lest 
reaction should set in, I began again without losing 
time : ‘ Queen ! The Divine Mother has laid on me the 
duty of establishing her worship in the land. But, alas, 
I am poor ! * 

Bimala was still flushed, her eyes clouded, her accents 
thick, as she replied : ‘ You poor? Is not all that each 
one has yours? What are my caskets full of jewellery 
for? Drag away from me all my gold and gems for 
your worship. I have no use for them ! ’ 

Once before Bimala had offered up her ornaments. 

1 A quotation from the Upanishads. 


170 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

I am not usually in the habit of drawing lines, but I felt 
I had to draw the line there/ I know why I feel this 
hesitation. It is for man to give ornaments to woman ; 
to take them from her wounds his manliness. 

But I must forget my self. Am I taking them? 
They are for the Divine Mother, to be poured in wor- 
ship at her feet. Oh ! but it must be a grand ceremony 
of worship such as the country has never beheld before. 
It must be a landmark in our history. It shall be my 
supreme legacy to the Nation. Ignorant men worship 
gods. I, Sandip, shall create them. 

But all this is a far cry. What about the urgent 
immediate? At least three thousand is indispensably 
necessary — five thousand would do roundly and nicely. 
But how on earth am I to mention money after the 
high flight we have just taken? And yet time is 
precious ! 

I crushed all hesitation under foot as I jumped up 

1 There is a world of sentiment attached to the ornaments 
worn by women in Bengal. They are not merely indicative of 
the love and regard of the giver, but the wearing of them sym- 
bolises all that is held best in wifehood, — the constant solicitude 
for her husband’s welfare, the successful performance of the 
material and spiritual duties of the household entrusted to her 
care. When the husband dies, and the responsibility for the 
household changes hands, then are all ornaments cast aside as a 
sign of the widow’s renunciation of worldly concerns. At any 
other time the giving up of ornaments is always a sign of su- 
preme distress and as such appeals acutely to the sense of chivalry 
of any Bengali who may happen to witness it. — Tr, 


SANDIP^S STORY 


171 

and made my plunge : ‘ Queen ! Our purse is empty, 
our work about to stop ! ’ 

Bimala winced. I could see she was thinking of 
that impossible Rs. 50,000. What a load she must 
have been carrying within her bosom, struggling under 
it, perhaps, through sleepless nights! What else had 
she with which to express her loving worship? De- 
barred from offering her heart at my feet, she hankers 
to make this sum of money, so hopelessly large for 
her, the bearer of her imprisoned feelings. The 
thought of what she must have gone through gives 
me a twinge of pain; for she is now wholly mine. 
The wrench of plucking up the plant by the roots is 
over. It is now only careful tending and nurture that 
is needed. 

‘ Queen I ’ said I, ‘ that Rs. 50,000 is not particularly 
wanted just now. I calculate that, for the present, 
five thousand or even three will serve.’ 

The relief made her heart rebound. ‘ I shall fetch 
you five thousand,’ she said in tones which seemed like 
an outburst of song, — the song which Radhika of the 
Vaishnava lyrics sang: 

For my lover will I bind in my hair 

The flower which has no equal in the three worlds! 

— it is the same tune, the same song : five thousand will 
I bring! That flower will I bind in my hair! 


172 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


The narrow restraint of the flute brings out this 
quality of song. I must not allow the pressure of too 
much greed to flatten out the reed, for then, as I fear, 
music will give place to the questions ‘ Why ? ^ ‘ What 

is the use of so much? ' ‘ How am I to get it? ’ — not 

a word of which will rhyme with what Radhika sang ! 
So, as I was saying, illusion alone is real, — it is the 
flute itself ; while truth is but its empty hollow. Nikhil 
has of late got a taste of that pure emptiness, — one can 
see it in his face, which pains even me. But it was 
Nikhirs boast that he wanted the Truth, while mine 
was that I would never let go illusion from my grasp. 
Each has been suited to his taste, so why complain ? 

To keep Bimala’s heart in the rarefied air of idealism, 
I cut short all further discussion over the five thousand 
rupees. I reverted to the demon-destroying goddess 
and her worship. When was the ceremony to be held 
and where? There is a great annual fair at Ruimari, 
within Nikhil’s estates, where hundreds of thousands 
of pilgrims assemble. That would be a grand place 
to inaugurate the worship of our goddess ! 

Bimala waxed intensely enthusiastic. This was not 
the burning of foreign cloth or the people’s granaries, 
so even Nikhil could have no objection, — so thought 
she. But I smiled inwardly. How little these two 
persons, who have been together, day and night, for 
nine whole years, know of each other! They know 


SANDIP’S STORY 


173 


something perhaps of their home life, but when it 
comes to outside concerns they are entirely at sea. 
They had cherished the belief that the harmony of the 
home with the outside was perfect. To-day they real- 
ise to their cost that it is too late to repair their neglect 
of years, and seek to harmonise them now. 

What does it matter ? Let those who have made the 
mistake learn their error by knocking against the 
world. Why need I bother about their plight? For 
the present I find it wearisome to keep Bimala soaring 
much longer, like a captive balloon, in regions ethereal. 
I had better get quite through with the matter in hand. 

When Bimala rose to depart and had neared the 
door I remarked in my most casual manner : * So, about 
the money . . .’ 

Bimala halted and faced back as she said : ‘ On the 
expiry of the month, when our personal allowances 
become due . . 

‘ That, I am afraid, would be much too late.* 

‘ When do you want it then ? * 

'To-morrow.* 

' To-morrow you shall have it.* 


CHAPTER VIII 


nikhil’s story 

X 

Paragraphs and letters against me have begun to 
come out in the local papers; cartoons and lampoons 
are to follow, I am told. Jets of wit and humour are 
being splashed about, and the lies thus scattered are 
convulsing the whole country. They know that the 
monopoly of mud-throwing is theirs, and the innocent 
passer-by cannot escape unsoiled. 

They are saying that the residents in my estates, 
from the highest to the lowest, are in favour of 
Swadeshi, but they dare not declare themselves, for 
fear of me. The few who have been brave enough to 
defy me have felt the full rigour of my persecution. 
I am in secret league with the police, and in private 
communication with the magistrate, and these frantic 
efforts of mine to add a foreign title of my own earning 
to the one I have inherited, will not, it is opined, go 
in vain. 

On the other hand, the papers are full of praise for 
those devoted sons of the motherland, the Kundu and 
the Chakravarti zamindars. If only, say they, the 


174 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


175 

country had a few more of such staunch patriots, the 
mills of Manchester would have had to sound their 
own dirge to the tune of Bande M afar am. 

Then comes a letter in blood-red ink, giving a list 
of the traitorous zamindars whose treasuries have been 
burnt down because of their failing to support the 
Cause. Holy Fire, it goes on to say, has been aroused 
to its sacred function of purifying the country; and 
other agencies are also at work to see that those who 
are not true sons of the motherland do cease to encum- 
ber her lap. The signature is an obvious nom-de- 
plume. 

I could see that this was the doing of our local 
students. So I sent for some of them and showed 
them the letter. 

The B.A. student gravely informed me that they 
also had heard that a band of desperate patriots had 
been formed who would stick at nothing in order to 
clear away all obstacles to the success of Swadeshi. 

‘ If,^ said I, ‘ even one of our countrymen succumbs 
to these overbearing desperadoes, that will indeed be 
a defeat for the country ! ’ 

‘ We fail to follow you, Maharaja,^ said the history 
student. 

‘ Our country,’ I tried to explain, * has been brought 
to death’s door through sheer fear, — from fear of the 
gods down to fear of the police; and if you set up. 


176 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


in the name of freedom, the fear of some other bogey, 
whatever it may be called; if you would raise your 
victorious standard on the cowardice of the country 
by means of downright oppression, then no true lover 
of the country can bow to your decision/ 

‘ Is there any country, sir,’ pursued the history stu- 
dent, ‘ where submission to Government is not due to 
fear?’ 

‘ The freedom that exists in any country,’ I replied, 
‘ may be measured by the extent of this reign of fear. 
Where its threat is confined to those who would hurt 
or plunder, there the Government may claim to have 
freed man from the violence of man. But if fear is 
to regulate how people are to dress, where they shall 
trade, or what they must eat, then is man’s freedom of 
will utterly ignored, and manhood destroyed at the 
root.’ 

‘ Is not such coercion of the individual will seen in 
other countries too ? ’ continued the history student. 

‘ Who denies it ? ’ I exclaimed. ‘ But in every coun- 
try man has destroyed himself to the extent that he 
has permitted slavery to flourish.’ 

‘ Does it not rather show,* interposed a Master of 
Arts, ‘that trading in slavery is inherent in man — a 
fundamental fact of his nature? ’ 

‘ Sandip Babu made the whole thing clear,* said a 
graduate. ‘ He gave us the example of Harish Kundu, 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


177 


your neighbouring zamindar. From his estates you 
cannot ferret out a single ounce of foreign salt. Why? 
Because he has always ruled with an iron hand. In 
the case of those who are slaves by nature, the lack 
of a strong master is the greatest of all calamities.’ 

‘ Why, sir ! ’ chimed in an undergraduate, * have you 
not heard of the obstreperous tenant of Chakravarti, 
the other zamindar close by, — ^how the law was set on 
him till he was reduced to utter destitution ? When at 
last he was left with nothing to eat, he started out to 
sell his wife’s silver ornaments, but no one dared buy 
them. Then Chakravarti’s manager offered him five 
rupees for the lot. They were worth over thirty, but 
he had to accept or starve. After taking over the 
bundle from him the manager coolly said that those 
five rupees would be credited towards his rent! We 
felt like having nothing more to do with Chakravarti 
or his manager after that, but Sandip Babu told us 
that if we threw over all the live people, we should have 
only dead bodies from the burning-grounds to carry 
on the work with! These live men, he pointed out, 
know what they want and how to get it, — they are 
born rulers. Those who do not know how to desire 
for themselves, must live in accordance with, or die 
by virtue of, the desires of such as these. Sandip 
Babu contrasted them — Kundu and Chakravarti — with 
you, Maharaja. You, he said, for all your good in- 

N 


1 78 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

tentions, will never succeed in planting Swadeshi 
within your territory/ 

‘ It is my desire/ I said, ‘ to plant something greater 
than Swadeshi. I am not after dead logs but living 
trees, — and these will take time to grow/ 

‘ I am afraid, sir,’ sneered the history student, ‘ that 
you will get neither log nor tree. Sandip Babu rightly 
teaches that in order to get, you must snatch. This 
is taking all of us some time to learn, because it runs • 
counter to what we were taught at school. I have seen 
with my own eyes that when a rent-collector of Harish 
Kundu’s found one of the tenants with nothing which 
could be sold up to pay his rent, he was made to sell 
his young wife! Buyers were not wanting, and the 
samindar's demand was satisfied. I tell you, sir, the 
sight of that man’s distress prevented my getting sleep 
for nights together! But, feel it as I did, this much 
I realised, that the man who knows how to get the 
money he is out for, even by selling up his debtor’s 
wife, is a better man than I am. I confess it is beyond 
me, — I am a weakling, my eyes fill with tears. If 
anybody can save our country it is these Kundus and 
these Chakravartis and their officials ! ’ 

I was shocked beyond words. ‘ If what you say 
be true,’ I cried, ‘ I clearly see that it must be the one 
endeavour of my life to save the country from these 
same Kundus and Chakravartis and officials. The 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


179 


slavery that has entered into our very bones is break- 
ing out, at this opportunity, as ghastly tyranny. You 
have been so used to submit to domination through 
fear, you have come to believe that to make others 
submit is a kind of religion. My fight shall be against 
this -weakness, this atrocious cruelty ! ’ 

These things, which are so simple to ordinary folk, 
get so twisted in the minds of our B.A.’s and M.A.'s, 
the only purpose of whose historical quibbles seems 
to be to torture the truth ! 

XI 

I am worried over Panchu's sham aunt. It will be 
difficult to disprove her, for though witnesses of a real 
event may be few or even wanting, innumerable proofs 
of a thing that has not happened can always be mar- 
shalled. The object of this move is, evidently, to 
get the sale of Panchu’s holding to me set aside. 

Being unable to find any other way out of it, I was 
thinking of allowing Panchu to hold a permanent 
tenure in my estates and building him a cottage on it. 
But my master would not have it. I should not give 
in to these nefarious tactics so easily, he objected, and 
offered to attend to the matter himself. 

‘ You, sir ! ’ I cried, considerably surprised. 

‘ Yes, I, ' he repeated. 

I could not see, at all clearly, what my master could 


i8o THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


do to counteract these legal machinations. That even- 
ing, at the time he usually came to me, he did not turn 
up. On my making inquiries, his servant said he had 
left home with a few things packed in a small trunk, and 
some bedding, saying he would be back in a few days. 
I thought he might have sallied forth to hunt for 
witnesses in Panchu’s uncle’s village. In that case, 
however, I was sure that his would be a hopeless 
quest . . . 

During the day I forget myself in my work. As 
the late autumn afternoon wears on, the colours of the 
sky become turbid, and so do the feelings of my mind. 
There are many in this world whose minds dwell in 
brick-built houses, — they can afford to ignore the thing 
called the outside. But my mind lives under the trees 
in the open, directly receives upon itself the messages 
borne by the free winds, and responds from the bottom 
of its heart to all the musical cadences of light and 
darkness. 

While the day is bright and the world in the pursuit 
of its numberless tasks crowds around, then it seems 
as if my life wants nothing else. But when the col- 
ours of the sky fade away and the blinds are drawn 
down over the windows of heaven, then my heart tells 
me that evening falls just for the purpose of shutting 
out the world, to mark the time when the darkness 
must be filled with the One. This is the end to which 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


i8i 


earth, sky and waters conspire, and I cannot harden 
myself against accepting its meaning. So when the 
gloaming deepens over the world, like the gaze of the 
dark eyes of the beloved, then my whole being tells 
me that work alone cannot be the truth of life, that 
work is not the be-all and the end-all of man, for man 
is not simply a serf, — even though the serfdom be of 
the True and the Good. 

Alas, Nikhil, have you for ever parted company 
with that self of yours who used to be set free under 
the starlight, to plunge into the infinite depths of the 
night’s darkness after the day’s work was done ? How 
terribly alone is he, who misses companionship in the 
midst of the multitudinousness of life. 

The other day, when the afternoon had reached the 
meeting point of day and night, I had no work, nor 
the mind for work, nor was my master there to keep 
me company. With my empty, drifting heart longing 
to anchor on to something, I traced my steps towards 
the inner gardens. I was very fond of chrysanthe- 
mums and had rows of them, of all varieties, banked 
up in pots against one of the garden walls. When 
they were in flower, it looked like a wave of green 
breaking into iridescent foam. It was some time 
since I had been to this part of the grounds, and I was 
beguiled into a cheerful expectancy at the thought of 
meeting my chrysanthemums after our long separation. 


i 82 the home and the WORLD 


As I went in, the full moon had just peeped over the 
wall, her slanting rays leaving its foot in deep shadow. 
It seemed as if she had come a-tiptoe from behind, and 
clasped the darkness over the eyes, smiling mischiev- 
ously. When I came near the bank of chrysanthe- 
mums, I saw a figure stretched on the grass in front. 
My heart gave a sudden thud. The figure also sat up 
with a start at my footsteps. 

What was to be done next? I was wondering 
whether it would do to beat a precipitate retreat. 
Bimala, also, was doubtless casting about for some way 
of escape. But it was as awkward to go as to stay! 
Before I could make up my mind, Bimala rose, pulled 
the end of her sari over her head, and walked off 
towards the inner apartments. 

This brief pause had been enough to make real to 
me the cruel load of Bimala’s misery. The plaint of 
my own life vanished from me in a moment. I called 
out : ‘ Bimala I ' 

She started and stayed her steps, but did not turn 
back. I went round and stood before her. Her face 
was in the shade, the moonlight fell on mine. Her 
eyes were downcast, her hands clenched. 

‘ Bimala,’ said I, ‘ why should I seek to keep you 
fast in this closed cage of mine? Do I not know that 
thus you cannot but pine and droop ? ’ 

She stood still, without raising her eyes or uttering 
a word. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


183 


‘ I know/ I continued, * that if I insist on keeping 
you shackled my whole life will be reduced to nothing 
but an iron chain. What pleasure can that be to me ? ' 

She was still silent. 

‘ So,’ I concluded, ‘ I tell you, truly, Bimala, you 
are free. Whatever I may or may not have been to 
you, I refuse to be your fetters.’ With which I came 
away towards the outer apartments. 

No, no, it was not a generous impulse, nor indiffer- 
ence. I had simply come to understand that never 
would I be free until I could set free. To try to keep 
Bimala as a garland round my neck, would have meant 
keeping a weight hanging over my heart. Have I not 
been praying with all my strength, that if happiness 
may not be mine, let it go; if grief needs must be my 
lot, let it come; but let me not be kept in bondage. To 
clutch hold of that which is untrue as though it were 
true, is only to throttle oneself. May I be saved from 
such self-destruction. 

When I entered my room, I found my master wait- 
ing there. My agitated feelings were still heaving*^ 
within me. ‘ Freedom, sir,’ I began unceremoniously, 
without greeting or inquiry, ‘ freedom is the biggest 
thing for man. Nothing can be compared to it — 
nothing at all ! ’ 

Surprised at my outburst, my master looked up at 
me in silence. 


i 84 the home and the WORLD 


‘ One can understand nothing from books,’ I went 
on. ‘We read in the scriptures that our desires are 
bonds, fettering us as well as others. But such words, 
by themselves, are so empty. It is only when we get 
to the point of letting the bird out of its cage that we 
can realise how free the bird has set us. Whatever 
we cage, shackles us with desire whose bonds are 
stronger than those of iron chains. I tell you, sir, this 
is just what the world has failed to understand. They 
all seek to reform something outside themselves. But 
reform is wanted only in one’s own desires, nowhere 
else, nowhere else ! ’ 

‘ We think,’ he said, ‘ that we are our own masters 
when we get in our hands the object of our desire — 
but we are really our own masters only when we are 
able to cast out our desires from our minds.’ 

‘ When we put all this into words, sir,’ I went on, 

‘ it sounds like some bald-headed injunction, but when 
we realise even a little of it we find it to be amrita , — 
which the gods have drunk and become immortal. We 
cannot see Beauty till we let go our hold of it. It was 
Buddha who conquered the world, not Alexander, — 
this is untrue when stated in dry prose, — oh when 
shall we be able to sing it ? When shall all these most 
intimate truths of the universe overflow the pages of 
printed books and leap out in a sacred stream like the 
Ganges from the Gangotrie ? ’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


i3s 

I was suddenly reminded of my master’s absence 
during the last few days and of my ignorance as to 
its reason. I felt somewhat foolish as I asked him: 
‘ And where have you been all this while, sir ? ’ 

‘ Staying with Panchu,’ he replied. 

‘ Indeed ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘ Have you been there all 
these days ? ’ 

‘Yes. I wanted to come to an understanding with 
the woman who calls herself his aunt. She could 
hardly be induced to believe that there could be such 
an odd character among the gentlefolk as the one who 
sought their hospitality. When she found I really 
meant to stay on, she began to feel rather ashamed 
of herself. “ Mother,” said I, “ you are not going to 
get rid of me, even if you abuse me! And so long as 
I stay, Panchu stays also. For you see, do you not, 
that I cannot stand by and see his motherless little 
ones sent out into the streets ? ” 

‘ She listened to my talks in this strain for a couple 
of days without saying yes or no. This morning I 
found her tying up her bundles. “We are going back 
to Brindaban,” she said. “ Let us have our expenses 
for the journey.” I knew she was not going to Brin- 
daban, and also that the cost of her journey would be 
substantial. So I have come to you.’ 

‘ The required cost shall be paid,’ I said. 

‘ The old woman is not a bad sort,’ my master went 


i86 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


on musingly. ' Panchu was not sure of her caste, and 
would not let her touch the water- jar, or anything at all 
of his. So they were continually bickering. When 
she found I had no objection to her touch, she looked 
after me devotedly. She is a splendid cook I 

' But all remnants of Panchu’s respect for me van- 
ished! To the last he had thought that I was at least 
a simple sort of person. But here was I, risking my 
caste without a qualm to win over the old woman for 
my purpose. Had I tried to steal a march on her by 
tutoring a witness for the trial, that would have been 
a different matter. Tactics must be met by tactics. 
But stratagem at the expense of orthodoxy is more 
than he can tolerate ! 

* Anyhow, I must stay on a few days at Panchu’s 
even after the woman leaves, for Harish Kundu may 
be up to any kind of devilry. He has been telling his 
satellites that he was content to have furnished Panchu 
with an aunt, but I have gone the length of supplying 
him with a father. He would like to see, now, how 
many fathers of his can save him I ^ 

‘ We may or may not be able to save him,’ I said; 
‘but if we should perish in the attempt to save the 
country from the thousand and one snares — of re- 
ligion, custom and selfishness — which these people are 
busy spreading, we shall at least die happy.’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


187 


bimala's story 

XIV 

Who could have thought that so much would hap- 
pen in this one life? I feel as if I have passed through 
a whole series of births, time has been flying so fast, 
I did not feel it move at all, till the shock came the 
other day. 

I knew there would be words between us when I 
made up my mind to ask my husband to banish foreign 
goods from our market. But it was my firm belief 
that I had no need to meet argument by argument, for 
there was magic in the very air about me. Had not 
so tremendous a man as Sandip fallen helplessly at my 
feet, like a wave of the mighty sea breaking on the 
shore? Had I called him? No, it was the summons 
of that magic spell of mine. And Amulya, poor dear 
boy, when he first came to me — how the current of his 
life flushed with colour, like the river at dawn! Truly 
have I realised how a goddess feels when she looks 
upon the radiant face of her devotee. 

With the confidence begotten of these proofs of my 
power, I was ready to meet my husband like a light- 
ning-charged cloud. But what was it that happened? 
Never in all these nine years have I seen such a far- 
away, distraught look in his eyes, — like the desert sky, 
— with no merciful moisture of its own, no colour 


i88 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


reflected, even, from Avhat it looked upon. I should 
have been so relieved if his anger had flashed 
out! But I could find nothing in him which I could 
touch, I felt as unreal as a dream, — a dream which 
would leave only the blackness of night when it was 
over. 

In the old days I used to be jealous of my sister-in- 
law for her beauty. Then I used to feel that Provi- 
dence had given me no power of my own, that my 
whole strength lay in the love which my husband had 
bestowed on me. Now that I had drained to the dregs 
the cup of power and could not do without its intoxica- 
tion, I suddenly found it dashed to pieces at my feet, 
leaving me nothing to live for. 

How feverishly I had sat to do my hair that day. 
Oh, shame, shame on me, the utter shame of it! My 
sister-in-law, when passing by, had exclaimed : ‘ Aha, 
Chota Rani! Your hair seems ready to jump off. 
Don’t let it carry your head with it.’ 

And then, the other day in the garden, how easy 
my husband found it to tell me that he set me free! 
But can freedom — empty freedom — ^be given and taken 
so easily as all that? It is like setting a fish free in 
the sky, — for how can I move or live outside the 
atmosphere of loving care which has always sustained 
me? 

When I came to my room to-day, I saw only fumi- 


BIMALA’S STORY 


189 


ture — only the bedstead, only the looking-glass, only* 
the clothes-rack — ^not the all-pervading heart which 
used to be there, over all. Instead of it there was 
freedom, only freedom, mere emptiness! A dried-up 
watercourse with all its rocks and pebbles laid bare. 
No feeling, only furniture! 

When I had arrived at a state of utter bewilderment, 
wondering whether anything true was left in my life, 
and whereabouts it could be, I happened to meet Sandip 
again. Then life struck against life, and the sparks 
flew in the same old way. Here was truth — impetuous 
truth — which rushed in and overflowed all bounds, 
truth which was a thousand times truer than the Bara 
Rani with her maid, Thako and her silly songs, and 
all the rest of them who talked and laughed and wan- 
dered about. . . . 

‘Fifty thousand! * Sandip had demanded. 

‘What is fifty thousand?’ cried my intoxicated 
heart. ‘You shall have it!’ 

How to get it, where to get it, were minor points 
not worth troubling over. Look at me. Had I not 
risen, all in one moment, from my nothingness to a 
height above everything? So shall all things come 
at my beck and call. I shall get it, get it, get it, — 
there cannot be any doubt. 

Thus had I come away from Sandip the other day. 
Then as I looked about me, where was it, — the tree of 


190 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

plenty? Oh, why does this outer world insult the 
heart so? 

And yet get it I must; how, I do not care; for sin 
there cannot be. Sin taints only the weak; I with my 
Shakti am beyond its reach. Only a commoner can 
be a thief, the king conquers and takes his rightful 
spoil. ... I must find out where the treasury is; 
who takes the money in ; who guards it. 

I spent half the night standing in the outer verandah 
peering at the row of office buildings. But how to 
get that Rs. 50,000 out of the clutches of those iron 
bars? If by some mantram I could have made all 
those guards fall dead in their places, I would not 
have hesitated, — so pitiless did I feel! 

But while a whole gang of robbers seemed dancing 
a war-dance within the whirling brain of its Rani, the 
great house of the Rajas slept in peace. The gong of 
the watch sounded hour after hour, and the sky over- 
head placidly looked on. 

At last I sent for Amulya. 

‘ Money is wanted for the Cause,’ I told him. ‘ Can 
you not get it out of the treasury? ’ 

* Why not ? ’ said he, with his chest thrown out. 

Alas ! had I not said ‘ Why not ’ to Sandip just in 
the same way ? The poor lad’s confidence could rouse 
no hopes in my mind. 

‘ How will you do it ? ’ I asked. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


191 

The wild plans he began to unfold would 
hardly bear repetition outside the pages of a penny 
dreadful. 

‘ No, Amulya,’ I said severely, ‘ you must not be 
childish.’ 

‘ Very well, then, ’ he said, ' let me bribe those 
watchmen.’ 

‘ Where is the money to come from ? ’ 

‘ I can loot the bazar,’ he burst out, without 
blenching. 

‘ Leave all that alone. I have my ornaments, they 
will serve.’ 

‘ But,’ said Amulya, ‘ it strikes me that the cashier 
cannot be bribed. Never mind, there is another and a 
simpler way.’ 

‘What is that?’ 

‘ Why need you hear it ? It is quite simple.’ 

‘ Still, I should like to know.’ 

Amulya fumbled in the pocket of his tunic and 
pulled out, first a small edition of the Gita, which he 
placed on the table, — and then a little pistol, which he 
showed me, but said nothing further. 

Horror! It did not take him a moment to make 
up his mind to kill our good old cashier ! ^ To look at 

1 The cashier is the official who is most in touch with the 
ladies of a zamindar^s household, directly taking their requisi- 
tions for household stores and doing their shopping for them. 


192 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

his frank, open face one would not have thought him 
capable of hurting a fly, but how different were the 
words which came from his mouth. It was clear that 
the cashier’s place in the world meant nothing real 
to him; it was a mere vacancy, lifeless, feelingless, 
with only stock phrases from the Gita , — Who kills the 
body kills naught! 

‘ Whatever do you mean, Amulya ? ’ I exclaimed at 
length. ‘ Don’t you know that the dear old man has 
got a wife and children and that he is . . .’ 

‘ Where are we to find men who have no wives and 
children ? ’ he interrupted. ‘ Look here, Maharani, the 
thing we call pity is, at bottom, only pity for ourselves. 
We cannot bear to woimd our own tender instincts, 
and so we do not strike at all; — ^pity indeed! The 
height of cowardice ! ’ 

To hear Sandip’s phrases in the mouth of this mere 
boy staggered me. So delightfully, lovably immature 
was he, — of that age when the good may still be be- 
lieved in as good, of that age when one really lives and 
grows. The Mother in me awoke. 

For myself there was no longer good or bad, — only 
death, beautiful alluring death. But to hear this strip- 
ling calmly talk of murdering an inoffensive old man 
as the right thing to do, made me shudder all over. 

and so he becomes more a member of the family than the 
others. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


193 


The more clearly I saw that there was no sin in his 
heart, the more horrible appeared to me the sin of 
his words. I seemed to see the sin of the parents 
visited on the innocent child. 

The sight of his great big eyes shining with faith 
and enthusiasm touched me to the quick. He was 
going, in his fascination, straight to the jaws of the 
python, from which, once in, there was no return. 
How was he to be saved ? Why does not my country 
become, for once, a real Mother, — clasp him to her 
bosom and cry out : ‘ Oh, my child, my child, what 
profits it that you should save me, if so it be that I 
should fail to save you ? ’ 

I know, I know, that all Power on earth waxes great 
under compact with Satan. But the Mother is there, 
alone though she be, to contemn and stand against this 
devil's progress. The Mother cares not for mere suc- 
cess, however great, — she wants to give life, to save 
life. My very soul, to-day, stretches out its hands 
in yearning to save this child. 

A while ago I suggested robbery to him. Whatever 
I may now say against it will be put down to a woman's 
weakness. They only love our weakness when it drags 
the world in its toils ! 

‘ You need do nothing at all, Amulya, I will see to 
the money,' I told him finally. 

When he had almost reached the door, I called him 


o 


194 the home and THE WORLD 

back. ‘ Amulya/ said I, ‘ I am your elder sister. 
To-day is not the Brothers’ Day ^ according to the cal- 
endar, but all the days in the year are really Brothers’ 
Days. My blessing be with you : may God keep you 
always.’ 

These unexpected words from my lips took Amulya 
by surprise. He stood stock-still for a time. Then, 
coming to himself, he prostrated himself at my feet 
in acceptance of the relationship and did me reverence. 
When he rose his eyes were full of tears. . , . O 
little brother mine! I am fast going to my death, — 
let me take all your sin away with me. May no taint 
from me ever tarnish your innocence ! 

I said to him : ‘ Let your offering of reverence be 
that pistol I ’ 

* What do you want with it, sister ? ’ 

‘ I will practise death.’ 

‘ Right, sister. Our women, also, must know how 

^ The daughter of the house occupies a place of specially ten- 
der affection in a Bengali household (perhaps in Hindu house- 
holds all over India) because, by dictate of custom, she must be 
given away in marriage so early. She thus takes corresponding 
memories with her to her husband’s home, where she has to 
begin as a stranger before she can get into her place. The result- 
ing feeling, of the mistress of her new home for the one she has 
left, has taken ceremonial form as the Brothers’ Day, on which 
the brothers are invited to the married sisters’ houses. Where 
the sister is the elder, she offers her blessing and receives the 
brothers’ reverence, and vice versa. Presents, called the offerings 
of reverence (or blessing) are exchanged. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


195 

to die, to deal death ! ’ with which Amulya handed me 
the pistol. 

The radiance of his youthful countenance seemed to 
tinge my life with the touch of a new dawn. I put 
away the pistol within my clothes. May this reverence- 
offering be the last resource in my extremity. . . . 

The door to the mother’s chamber in my woman’s 
heart once opened, I thought it would always remain 
open. But this pathway to the supreme good was 
closed when the mistress took the place of the mother 
and locked it again. The very next day I saw Sandip ; 
and madness, naked and rampant, danced upon my 
heart. 

What was this? Was this, then, my truer self? 
Never! I had never before known this shameless, 
this cruel one within me. The snake-charmer had 
come, pretending to draw this snake from within the 
fold of my garment, — ^but it was never there, it was 
his all the time. Some demon has gained possession 
of me, and what I am doing to-day is the play of his 
activity — it has nothing to do with me. 

This demon, in the guise of a god, had come with 
his ruddy torch to call me that day, saying : ' I am your 
Country. I am your Sandip. I am more to you than 
anything else of yours. Bande M afar am! ’ And with 
folded hands I had responded: ‘You are my religion. 
You are my heaven. Whatever else is mine shall be 


196 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


swept away before my love for you. Bande Match 
ram! ' 

Five thousand is it? Five thousand it shall be! 
You want it to-morrow? To-morrow you shall have 
it! In this desperate orgy, that gift of five thousand 
shall be as the foam of wine, — and then for the riotous 
revel! The immovable world shall sway under our 
feet, fire shall flash from our eyes, a storm shall roar 
in our ears, what is or is not in front shall become 
equally dim. And then with tottering footsteps we 
shall plunge to our death, — in a moment all fire will be 
extinguished, the ashes will be scattered, and nothing 
will remain behind. 


CHAPTER IX 


BIMALA^'S STORY 
XV 

For a time I was utterly at a loss to think of any way 
of getting that money. Then, the other day, in the 
light of intense excitement, suddenly the whole picture 
stood out clear before me. 

Every year my husband makes a reverence-offering 
of six thousand rupees to my sister-in-law at the time 
of the Durga Puja. Every year it is deposited in her 
account at the bank in Calcutta. This year the offer- 
ing was made as usual, but it has not yet been sent to 
the bank, being kept meanwhile in an iron safe, in a 
comer of the little dressing-room attached to our 
bedroom. 

Every year my husband takes the money to the bank 
himself. This year he has not yet had an opportunity 
of going to town. How could I fail to see the hand 
of Providence in this? The money has been held up 
because the country wants it, — ^who could have the 
power to take it away from her to the bank ? And how 
can I have the power to refuse to take the money? 


197 


198 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

The goddess revelling in destruction holds out her 
blood-cup crying: ‘Give me drink. I am thirsty.’ I 
will give her my own heart’s blood with that five thou- 
sand rupees. Mother, the loser of that money will 
scarcely feel the loss, but me you will utterly ruin ! 

Many a time, in the old days, have I inwardly called 
the Senior Rani a thief, for I charged her with wheed- 
ling money out of my trusting husband. After her 
husband’s death, she often used to make away with 
things belonging to the estate for her own use. This 
I used to point out to my husband, but he remained 
silent. I would get angry and say: ‘ If you feel gen- 
erous, make gifts by all means, but why allow yourself 
to be robbed ? ’ Providence must have smiled, then, 
at these complaints of mine, for to-night I am on the 
way to rob my husband’s safe of my sister-in-law’s 
money. 

My husband’s custom was to let his keys remain in 
his pockets when he took off his clothes for the night, 
leaving them in the dressing-room. I picked out the 
key of the safe and opened it. The slight sound it 
made seemed to wake the whole world! A sudden 
chill turned my hands and feet icy cold, and I shivered 
all over. 

There was a drawer inside the safe. On opening 
this I found the money, not in currency notes, but in 
gold rolled up in paper. I had no time to count out 


BIMALA’S STORY 


199 

what I wanted. There were twenty rolls, all of which 
I took and tied up in a corner of my sari. 

What a weight it was. The burden of the theft 
crushed my heart to the dust. Perhaps notes would 
have made it seem less like thieving, but this was all 
gold. 

After I had stolen into my room like a thief, it felt 
like my own room no longer. All the most precious 
rights which I had over it vanished at the touch of 
my theft. I began to mutter to myself, as though tell- 
ing mantrams: Bande Mataram, Bande Mataram, my 
Country, my golden Country, all this gold is for you, 
for none else I 

But in the night the mind is weak. I came back 
into the bedroom where my husband was asleep, closing 
my eyes as I passed through, and went off to the open 
terrace beyond, on which I lay prone, clasping to my 
breast the end of the sari tied over the gold. And each 
one of the rolls gave me a shock of pain. 

The silent night stood there with forefinger upraised. 
I could not think of my house as separate from my 
country: I had robbed my house, I had robbed my 
country. For this sin my house had ceased to be 
mine, my country also was estranged from me. Had 
I died begging for my country, even unsuccessfully, 
that would have been worship, acceptable to the gods. 
But theft is never worship, — ^how then can I offer this 


200 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


gold ? Ah me ! I am doomed to death myself, must 
I desecrate my country with my impious touch ? 

The way to put the money back is closed to me. I 
have not the strength to return to the room, take again 
that key, open once more that safe, — I should swoon 
on the threshold of my husband’s door. The only 
road left now is the road in front. Neither have I 
the strength deliberately to sit down and count the 
coins. Let them remain behind their coverings: I 
cannot calculate. 

There was no mist in the winter sky. The stars 
were shining brightly. If, thought I to myself, as I 
lay out there, I had to steal these stars one by one, like 
golden coins, for my country, — these stars so carefully 
stored up in the bosom of the darkness, — then the sky 
would be blinded, the night widowed for ever, and my 
theft would rob the whole world. But was not also 
this very thing I had done a robbing of the whole 
world, — not only of money, but of trust, of right- 
eousness ? 

I spent the night lying on the terrace. When at last 
it was morning, and I was sure that my husband had 
risen and left the room, then only with my shawl pulled 
over my head, could I retrace my steps towards the 
bedroom. 

My sister-in-law was about, with her brass pot, 
watering her plants. When she saw me passing in the 


BIMALA’S STORY 


201 


distance she cried : ‘ Have you heard the news, Chota 
Rani?’ 

I stopped in silence, all in a tremor. It seemed to 
me that the rolls of sovereigns were bulging through 
the shawl. I feared they would burst and scatter in a 
ringing shower, exposing to all the servants of the 
house the thief who had made herself destitute by 
robbing her own wealth. 

‘ Your band of robbers,’ she went on, ‘ have sent an 
anonymous message threatening to loot the treasury.’ 

I remained as silent as a thief. 

‘ I was advising brother Nikhil to seek your protec- 
tion,’ she continued banteringly. ‘ Call off your min- 
ions, Robber Queen! We will offer sacrifices to your 
Bande Mataram if you will but save us. What doings 
there are these days! — ^but for the Lord’s sake, spare 
our house at least from burglary.’ 

I hastened into my room without reply. I had put 
my foot on quicksand, and could not now withdraw it. 
Struggling would only send me down deeper. 

If only the time would arrive when I could hand 
over the money to Sandip ! I could bear it no longer, 
its weight was breaking through my very ribs. 

It was still early when I got word that Sandip was 
awaiting me. To-day I had no thought of adorn- 
ment. Wrapped as I was in my shawl, I went off 
to the outer apartments. 


202 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


As I entered the sitting-room I saw Sandip and 
Amulya there, together. All my dignity, all my 
honour, seemed to run tingling through my body from 
head to foot and vanish into the ground. I should 
have to lay bare a woman’s uttermost shame in sight 
of this boy ? Could they have been discussing my deed 
in their meeting place ? Had any vestige of a veil of 
decency been left for me ? 

We women shall never understand men. When they 
are bent on making a road for some achievement, they 
think nothing of breaking the heart of the world into 
pieces to pave it for the progress of their chariot. When 
they are mad with the intoxication of creating, they re- 
joice in destroying the creation of the Creator. This 
heartbreaking shame of mine will not attract even a 
glance from their eyes. They have no feeling for life 
itself, — all their eagerness is for their object. What 
am I to them but a meadow flower in the path of a 
torrent in flood ? 

What good will this extinction of me be to Sandip ? 
Only five thousand rupees ? Was not I good for some- 
thing more than only five thousand rupees? Yes, in- 
deed! Did I not learn that from Sandip himself, and 
was I not able in the light of this knowledge to despise 
all else in my world? I was the giver of light, of life, 
of Shakti, of immortality, — in that belief, in that joy, 

I had burst all my bounds and come into the open. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


203 


Had any one then fulfilled for me that joy, I should 
have lived in my death. I should have lost nothing 
in the loss of my all. 

Do they want to tell me now that all this was false ? 
The psalm of my praise which was sung so devotedly, 
did it bring me down from my heaven, not to make 
heaven of earth, but only to level heaven itself with 
the dust? 


XVI 

‘ The money. Queen ? ' said Sandip with his ,keen 
glance full on my face. 

Amulya also fixed his gaze on me. Though not 
my own mother’s child, yet the dear lad is brother to 
me; for mother is mother all the world over. With 
his guileless face, his gentle eyes, his innocent youth, he 
looked at me. And I, a woman, — of his mother’s sex 
— how could I hand him poison, just because he asked 
for it? 

‘ The money. Queen ! ’ Sandip’s insolent demand 
rang in my ears. For very shame and vexation I felt 
I wanted to fling that gold at Sandip’s head. I could 
hardly undo the knot of my sari, my fingers trembled 
so. At last the paper rolls dropped on the table. 

Sandip’s face grew black. . . . He must have 
thought that the rolls were of silver. . . . What con- 
tempt was in his looks. What utter disgust at inca- 


204 the home and the world 


pacity. It was almost as if he could have struck me! 
He must have suspected that I had come to parley with 
him, to offer to compound his claim for five thousand 
rupees with a few hundreds. There was a moment 
when I thought he would snatch up the rolls and throw 
them out of the window, declaring that he was no beg- 
gar, but a king claiming tribute. 

' Is that all ? ' asked Amulya with such pity welling 
up in his voice that I wanted to sob out aloud. I kept 
my heart tightly pressed down, and merely nodded my 
head. 

Sandip was speechless. He neither touched the 
rolls, nor uttered a sound. 

My humiliation went straight to the boy’s heart. 
With a sudden, feigned enthusiasm he exclaimed : ‘ It’s 
plenty. It will do splendidly. You have saved us.’ 
With which he tore open the covering of one of the 
rolls. 

The sovereigns shone out. And in a moment the 
black covering seemed to be lifted from Sandip’s coun- 
tenance also. His delight beamed forth from his 
features. Unable to control his sudden revulsion of 
feeling, he sprang up from his seat towards me. What 
he intended I know not. I flashed a lightning glance 
towards Amulya, — the colour had left the boy’s face 
as at the stroke of a whip. Then with all my strength 
I thrust Sandip from me. As he reeled back his head 


BIMALA^S STORY 


205 


struck the edge of the marble table and he dropped on 
the floor. There he lay awhile, motionless. Ex- 
hausted with my effort, I sank back on my seat. 

Amulya’s face lightened with a joyful radiance. He 
did not even turn towards Sandip, but came straight 
up, took the dust of my feet, and then remained there, 
sitting on the floor in front of me. O my little brother, 
my child! This reverence of yours is the last touch 
of heaven left in my empty world! I could contain 
myself no longer, and my tears flowed fast. I covered 
my eyes with the end of my sari, which I pressed to 
my face with both my hands, and sobbed and sobbed. 
And every time that I felt on my feet his tender touch 
trying to comfort me my tears broke out afresh. 

After a little, when I had recovered myself and 
taken my hands from my face, I saw Sandip back at 
the table, gathering up the sovereigns in his handker- 
chief, as if nothing had happened. Amulya rose to 
his seat, from his place near my feet, his wet eyes 
shining. 

Sandip coolly looked up at my face as he remarked : 
‘ It is six thousand.^ 

‘ What do we want with so much, Sandip Babu ? ’ 
cried Amulya. ‘ Three thousand five hundred is all 
we need for our work.’ 

‘ Our wants are not for this one place only,’ Sandip 
replied. ‘ We shall want all we can get.’ 


2o6 the home and the WORLD 


‘ That may be/ said Amulya. * But in future I 
undertake to get you all you want. Out of this, San- 
dip Babu, please return the extra two thousand five 
hundred to the Maharani.’ 

Sandip glanced enquiringly at me. 

‘ No, no,* I exclaimed. ‘ I shall never touch that 
money again. Do with it as you will.* 

‘ Can man ever give as woman can ? * said Sandip, 
looking towards Amulya. 

' They are goddesses ! * agreed Amulya with en- 
thusiasm. 

‘ We men can at best give of our power,* continued 
Sandip. ‘ But women give themselves. Out of their 
own life they give birth, out of their own life they give 
sustenance. Such gifts are the only true gifts.’ Then 
turning to me, ‘ Queen ! * said he, 'if what you have 
given us had been only money I would not have 
touched it. But you have given that which is more 
to you than life itself ! * 

There must be two different persons inside men. 
One of these in me can understand that Sandip is try- 
ing to delude me; the other is content to be deluded. 
Sandip has power, but no strength of righteousness. 
The weapon of his which rouses up life smites it again 
to death. He has the unfailing quiver of the gods, 
but the shafts in them are of the demons. 

Sandip’s handkerchief was not large enough to hold 


BIMALA’S STORY 


207 

all the coins. * Queen,’ he asked, ' can you give me 
another ? ’ 

When I gave him mine, he reverently touched his 
forehead with it, and then suddenly kneeling on the 
floor he made me an obeisance. * Goddess ! ’ he said, 
‘ it was to offer my reverence that I had approached 
you, but you repulsed me, and rolled me in the dust. 
Be it so, I accept your repulse as your boon to me, I 
raise it to my head in salutation ! ’ with which he 
pointed to the place where he had been hurt. 

Had I then misunderstood him? Could it be that 
his outstretched hands had really been directed towards 
my feet? Yet, surely, even Amulya had seen the pas- 
sion that flamed out of his eyes, his face. But Sandip 
is such an adept in setting music to his chant of praise 
that I cannot argue ; I lose my power of seeing truth ; 
my sight is clouded over like an opium-eater’s eyes. 
And so, after all, he gave me back twice as much in 
return for the blow I had dealt him, — the wound on 
his head ended by making me bleed at heart. When I 
had received Sandip’s obeisance my theft seemed to 
gain a dignity, and the gold glittering on the table to 
smile away all fear of disgrace, all stings of conscience. 

Like me Amulya also was won back. His devotion 
to Sandip, which had suffered a momentary check, 
blazed up anew. The flower-vase of his mind filled 
once more with offerings for the worship of Sandip 


2o8 the home and the WORLD 


and me. His simple faith shone out of his eyes with 
the pure light of the morning star at dawn. 

After I had offered worship and received worship 
my sin became radiant. And as Amulya looked on 
my face he raised his folded hands in salutation and 
cried Bande Mataram! I cannot expect to have this 
adoration surrounding me for ever; and yet this has 
come to be the only means of keeping alive my self- 
respect. 

I can no longer enter my bedroom. The bedstead 
seems to thrust out a forbidding hand, the iron safe 
frowns at me. I want to get away from this continual 
insult to myself which is rankling within me. I want 
to keep running to Sandip to hear him sing my praises. 
There is just this one little altar of worship which has 
kept its head above the all-pervading depths of my dis- 
honour, and so I want to cleave to it night and day; 
for on whichever side I step away from it, there is 
only emptiness. 

Praise, praise, I want unceasing praise. I cannot 
live if my wine-cup be left empty for a single moment. 
So, as the very price of my life, I want Sandip of all 
the world, to-day. 

XVII 

When my husband nowadays comes in for his meals 
I feel I cannot sit before him; and yet it is such a 


BIMALA’S STORY 


209 

shame not to be near him that I feel I cannot do that 
either. So I seat myself where we cannot look at each 
other's faces. That was how I was sitting the other 
day when the Bara Rani came and joined us. 

‘ It is all very well for you, brother,' said she, * to 
laugh away these threatening letters. But they do 
frighten me so. Have you sent off that money you 
gave me to the Calcutta bank ? ' 

‘ No, I have not yet had the time to get it away,' 
my husband replied. 

‘ You are so careless, brother dear, you had better 
look out. . . . ' 

‘ But it is in the iron safe right inside the inner 
dressing-room,' said my husband with a reassuring 
smile. 

‘ What if they get in there ? You can never tell ! ' 

* If they go so far, they might as well carry you off 
too ! ' 

‘ Don't you fear, no one will come for poor me. 
The real attraction is in your room! But joking 
apart, don't run the risk of keeping money in the room 
like that.' 

‘ They will be taking along the Government revenue 
to Calcutta in a few days now ; I will send this money 
to the bank under the same escort.' 

‘Very well. But see you don't forget all about it, 
you are so absent-minded.' 


210 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘Even if that money gets lost, while in my room, 
the loss cannot be yours. Sister Rani/ 

‘ Now, now, brother, you will make me very angry 
if you talk in that way. Was I making any difference 
between yours and mine? What if your money is 
lost, does not that hurt me? If Providence has 
thought fit to take away my all, it has not left me 
insensible to the value of the most devoted brother 
known since the days of Lakshman.^ 

* Well, Junior Rani, are you turned into a wooden 
doll? You have not spoken a word yet. Do you 
know, brother, our Junior Rani thinks I try to flatter 
you. If things came to that pass I should not hesitate 
to do so, but I know my dear old brother does not 
need it ! ’ 

Thus the Senior Rani chattered on, not forgetting 
now and then to draw her brother’s attention to this 
or that special delicacy amongst the dishes that were 
being served. My head was all the time in a whirl. 
The crisis was fast coming. Something must be done 
about replacing that money. And as I kept asking 
myself what could be done, and how it was to be done, 
the unceasing patter of my sister-in-law’s words seemed 
more and more intolerable. 

What made it all the worse was, that nothing could 

^ Of the Ramayana. The story of his devotion to his elder 
brother Rama and his brother’s wife Sita, has become a byword. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


2II 


escape my sister-in-law’s keen eyes. Every now and 
then she was casting side glances towards me. What 
she could read in my face I do not know, but to me 
it seemed that everything was written there only too 
plainly. 

Then I did an infinitely rash thing. Affecting an 
easy, amused laugh I said : ‘ All the Senior Rani’s 
suspicions, I see, are reserved for me, — ^her fears of 
thieves and robbers are only a feint.’ 

The Senior Rani smiled mischievously. ‘ You are 
right, sister mine. A woman’s theft is the most fatal 
of all thefts. But how can you elude my watchful- 
ness ? Am I a man, that you should hoodwink me ? ’ 

‘ If you fear me so,’ I retorted, ‘ let me keep in your 
hands all I have, as security. If I cause you loss, you 
can then repay yourself.’ 

‘ Just listen to her, our simple little Junior Rani ! ’ 
she laughed back, turning to my husband. * Does she 
not know that there are losses which no security can 
make good, either in this world or in the next ? ’ 

My husband did not join in our exchange of words. 
When he had finished, he went off to the outer apart- 
ments, for nowadays he does not take his mid-day 
rest in our room. 

All my more valuable jewels were in deposit in the 
treasury in charge of the cashier. Still what I kept 
with me must have been worth thirty or forty thou- 


212 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


sand. I took my jewel-box to the Bara Rani’s room 
and opened it out before her, saying : ‘ I leave these 
with you, sister. They will keep you quite safe from 
all worry.’ 

The Bara Rani made a gesture of mock despair. 
* You positively astound me, Chota Rani!’ she said. 
‘ Do you really suppose I spend sleepless nights for 
fear of being robbed by you? ’ 

‘ What harm if you did have a wholesome fear of 
me ? Does anybody know anybody else in this world ? ’ 

‘You want to teach me a lesson by trusting me? 
No, no 1 I am bothered enough to know what to do 
with my own jewels, without keeping watch over 
yours. Take them away, there’s a dear, so many pry- 
ing servants are about.’ 

I went straight from my sister-in-law’s room to the 
sitting-room outside, and sent for Amulya. With 
him Sandip came along too. I was in a great hurry, 
and said to Sandip : ‘ If you don’t mind, I want to 
have a word or two with Amulya. Would you . . . ’ 

Sandip smiled a wry smile. ‘ So Amulya and I are 
separate in your eyes? If you have set about to wean 
him from me, I must confess I have no power to retain 
him.’ 

I made no reply, but stood waiting. 

‘ Be it so,’ Sandip went on. ‘ Finish your special 
talk with Amulya. But then you must give me a 


BIMALA’S STORY 


213 


special talk all to myself too, or it will mean a defeat 
for me. I can stand everything, but not defeat. My 
share must always be the lion’s share. This has been 
my constant quarrel with Providence. I will defeat 
the Dispenser of my fate, but not take defeat at his 
hands.’ With a crushing look at Amulya, Sandip 
walked out of the room. 

‘ Amulya, my own little brother, you must do one 
thing for me,’ I said. 

‘ I will stake my life for whatever duty you may lay 
on me, sister.’ 

I brought out my jewel-box from the folds of my 
shawl and placed it before him. ‘ Sell or pawn these,’ 
I said, ‘ and get me six thousand rupees as fast as ever 
you can.’ 

‘ No, no. Sister Rani,’ said Amulya, touched to the 
quick. ‘ Let these jewels be. I will get you six thou- 
sand all the same.’ 

‘ Oh, don’t be silly,’ I said impatiently. * There is 
no time for any nonsense. Take this box. Get away 
to Calcutta by the night train. And bring me the 
money by the day after to-morrow positively.’ 

Amulya took a diamond necklace out of the box, 
held it up to the light and put it back gloomily. 

‘ I know,’ I told him, ‘ that you will never get the 
proper price for these diamonds, so I am giving you 
jewels worth about thirty thousand. I don’t care if 


214 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


they all go, but I must have that six thousand without 
fail/ 

* Do you know, Sister Rani,’ said Amulya, ‘ I have 
had a quarrel with Sandip Babu over that Rs. 6000 he 
took from you? I cannot tell you how ashamed I 
felt. But Sandip Babu would have it that we must 
give up even our shame for the country. That may be 
so. But this is somehow different. I do not fear to die 
for the country, to kill for the country, — that much 
shakti has been given me. But I cannot forget the 
shame of having taken money from you. There San- 
dip Babu is ahead of me. He has no regrets or com- 
punctions. He says we must get rid of the idea that 
the money belongs to the one in whose box it happens to 
be, — if we cannot, where is the magic of Bande Mal- 
ar am? * 

Amulya gathered enthusiasm as he talked on. He 
always warms up when he has me for a listener. ‘ The 
Gita tells us,’ he continued, ‘ that no one can kill the 
soul. Killing is a mere word. So also is the taking away 
of money. Whose is the money ? No one has created 
it. No one can take it away with him when he departs 
this life, for it is no part of his soul. To-day it is mine, 
to-morrow my son’s, the next day his creditor’s. Since, 
in fact, money belongs to no one, why should any 
blame attach to our patriots if, instead of leaving it for 
some worthless son, they take it for their own use ? ’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


215 

When I hear Sandip’s words uttered by this boy, I 
tremble all over. Let those who are snake-charmers 
play with snakes; if harm comes to them, they are pre- 
pared for it. But these boys are so innocent, all the 
world is ready with its blessing to protect them. They 
play with a snake not knowing its nature, and when 
we see them smilingly, trustfully, putting their hands 
within reach of its fangs, then we understand how ter- 
ribly dangerous the snake is. Sandip is right when he 
suspects that though I, for myself, may be ready to 
die at his hands, this boy I shall wean from him and 
save. 

* So the money is wanted for the use of your pa- 
triots ? ’ I questioned with a smile. 

‘ Of course it is ! ’ said Amulya proudly. * Are they 
not our kings? Poverty takes away from their regal 
power. Do you know, we always insist on Sandip 
Babu travelling First Class? He never shirks kingly 
honours, — he accepts them not for himself, but for the 
glory of us all. The greatest weapon of those who rule 
the world, Sandip Babu has told us, is the hypnotism of 
their display. To take the vow of poverty would be 
for them not merely a penance, — it would mean 
suicide.’ 

At this point Sandip noiselessly entered the room. I 
threw my shawl over the jewel-case with a rapid move- 
ment. 


2i6 the home and the WORLD 


‘ The special-talk business not yet over ? ’ he asked 
with a sneer in his tone. 

‘ Yes, we’ve quite finished,’ said Amulya apologet- 
ically. ‘ It was nothing much.’ 

‘ No, Amulya,’ I said, ‘ we have not quite finished.’ 

‘ So exit Sandip, for the second time, I suppose ? ’ 
said Sandip. 

‘ If you please.’ 

‘ And as to Sandip’s re-entry . . . ’ 

‘ Not to-day. I have no time.’ 

‘ I see! ’ said Sandip as his eyes flashed. ‘ No time 
to waste, only for special talks 1 ’ 

Jealousy! Where the strong man shows weakness, 
there the weaker sex cannot help beating her drums of 
victory. So I repeated firmly : ‘ I really have no time.’ 

Sandip went away looking black. Amulya was 
greatly perturbed. ‘ Sister Rani,’ he pleaded, ‘ Sandip 
Babu is annoyed.’ 

‘ He has neither cause nor right to be annoyed,’ I 
said with some vehemence. ‘ Let me caution you about 
one thing, Amulya. Say nothing to Sandip Babu 
about the sale of my jewels, — on your life.’ 

‘ No, I will not.’ 

‘ Then you had better not delay any more. You 
must get away by to-night’s train.’ 

Amulya and I left the room together. As we came 
out on the verandah Sandip was standing there. I 


BIMALA’S STORY 


217 


could see he was waiting to waylay Amulya. To pre- 
vent that I had to engage him. ‘ What is it you wanted 
to tell me, Sandip Babu ? ’ I asked. 

‘ I have nothing special to say — mere small talk. 
And since you have not the time . . . ’ 

‘ I can give you just a little.’ 

By this time Amulya had left. As we entered the 
room Sandip asked : * What was that box Amulya car- 
ried away ? ’ 

The box had not escaped his eyes. I remained firm. 
‘ If I could have told you, it would have been made over 
to him in your presence ! ’ 

‘ So you think Amulya will not tell me ? ’ 

‘ No, he will not.’ 

Sandip could not conceal his anger any longer. ‘ You 
think you will gain the mastery over me ? ’ he blazed 
out. * That shall never be. Amulya, there, would die 
a happy death if I deigned to trample him under foot. 
I will never, so long as I live, allow you to bring him 
to your feet ! ’ 

Oh, the weak! the weak! At last Sandip has real- 
ised that he is weak before me ! That is why there is 
this sudden outburst of anger. He has understood 
that he cannot meet the power that I wield, with mere 
strength. With a glance I can crumble his strongest 
fortifications. So he must needs resort to bluster. I 
simply smiled in contemptuous silence. At last I have 


2i8 the home and the WORLD 

come to a level above him. I must never lose this 
vantage ground; never descend lower again. Amidst 
all my degradation this bit of dignity must remain to 
me! 

‘ I know/ said Sandip, after a pause, ‘ it was your 
jewel case.’ 

‘ You may guess as you please,’ said I, ‘ but you will 
get nothing out of me.’ 

‘ So you trust Amulya more than you trust me ? Do 
you know that the boy is the shadow of my shadow, 
the echo of my echo, — that he is nothing if I am not 
at his side ? ’ 

' Where he is not your echo, he is himself, Amulya. 
And that is where I trust him more than I can trust 
your echo ! ’ 

‘ You must not forget that you arc under a promise 
to render up all your ornaments to me for the worship 
of the Divine Mother. In fact your offering has al- 
ready been made.’ 

‘ Whatever ornaments the gods leave to me will be 
offered up to the gods. But how can I offer those 
which have been stolen away from me? ’ 

‘ Look here, it is no use your trying to give me the 
slip in that fashion. Now is the time for grim work. 
Let that work be finished, then you can make a display 
of your woman’s wiles to your heart’s content, — and I 
will help you in your game.’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


219 


The moment I had stolen my husband's money and 
paid it to Sandip, the music that was in our relations 
stopped. Not only did I destroy all my own value by 
making myself cheap, but Sandip's powers, too, lost 
scope for their full play. You cannot employ your 
marksmanship against a thing which is right in your 
grasp. So Sandip has lost his aspect of the hero; a 
tone of low quarrelsomeness has come into his words. 

Sandip kept his brilliant eyes fixed full on my face 
till they seemed to blaze with all the thirst of the mid- 
day sky. Once or twice he fidgeted with his feet, as 
though to leave his seat, as if to spring right on me. 
My whole body seemed to swim, my veins throbbed, the 
hot blood surged up to my ears; I felt that if I re- 
mained there, I should never get up at all. With a 
supreme effort I tore myself off the chair, and has- 
tened towards the door. 

From Sandip's dry throat there came a muffied cry : 
‘ Whither would you flee. Queen ? ' The next moment 
he left his seat with a bound to seize hold of me. At 
the sound of footsteps outside the door, however, he 
rapidly retreated and fell back into his chair. I checked 
my steps near the bookshelf, where I stood staring at 
the names of the books. 

As my husband entered the room, Sandip exclaimed : 
‘ I say, Nikhil, don't you keep Browning among your 
books here? I was just telling Queen Bee of our col- 


220 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

lege club. Do you remember that contest of ours 
over the translation of those lines from Browning? 
You don’t? 

She should never have looked at me, 

If she meant I should not love her, 

There are plenty . . . men you call such, 

I suppose . . . she may discover 
All her soul to, if she pleases. 

And yet leave much as she found them: 

But Fm not so, and she knew it 
When she fixed me, glancing round them. 

‘ I managed to get together the words to render it 
into Bengali, somehow, but the result was hardly likely 
to be a “ joy forever ” to the people of Bengal. I 
really did think at one time that I was on the verge of 
becoming a poet, but Providence was kind enough to 
save me from that disaster. Do you remember old 
Dakshina? If he had not become a Salt Inspector, he 
would have been a poet. I remember his rendering to 
this day. . . . 

‘ No, Queen Bee, it is no use rummaging those 
bookshelves. Nikhil has ceased to read poetry since 
his marriage, — perhaps he has no further need for it. 
But I suppose “ the fever fit of poesy,” as the Sanskrit 
has it, is about to attack me again.’ 

‘ I have come to give you a warning, Sandip,’ said 
my husband. 

‘ About the fever fit of poesy? ’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


221 


My husband took no notice of this attempt at 
humour. ‘ For some time/ he continued, ‘ Mahomedan 
preachers have been about stirring up the local Mussul- 
mans. They are all wild with you, and may attack you 
any moment/ 

‘ Are you come to advise flight ? ’ 

‘ I have come to give you information, not to offer 
advice.’ 

* Had these estates been mine, such a warning would 
have been necessary for the preachers, not for me. If, 
instead of trying to frighten me, you give them a taste 
of your intimidation, that would be worthier both of 
you and me. Do you know that your weakness is 
weakening your neighbouring zamindars also ? ’ 

* I did not offer you my advice, Sandip. I wish you, 
too, would refrain from giving me yours. Besides it 
is useless. And there is another thing I want to tell 
you. You and your followers have been secretly wor- 
rying and oppressing my tenantry. I cannot allow that 
any longer. So I must ask you to leave my territory.’ 

‘ For fear of the Mussulmans, or is there any other 
fear you have to threaten me with ? ’ 

‘ There are fears the want of which is cowardice. 
In the name of those fears, I tell you, Sandip, you must 
go. In five days I shall be starting for Calcutta. I 
want you to accompany me. You may of course stay 
in my house there, — to that there is no objection.’ 


222 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


* All right, I have still five days’ time then. Mean- 
while, Queen Bee, let me hum to you my song of part- 
ing from your honey-hive. Ah! you poet of modern 
Bengal ! Throw open your doors and let me plunder 
your words. The theft is really yours, for it is my 
song which you have made your own — let the name be 
yours by all means, but the song is mine.’ With this 
Sandip struck up in a deep, husky voice, which threat- 
ened to be out of tune, a song in the Bhairavi mode : 

In the springtime of your kingdom, my Queen, 

Meetings and partings chase each other in their endless hide 
and seek. 

And flowers blossom in the wake of those that droop and die in 
the shade. 

In the springtime of your kingdom, my Queen, 

My meeting with you had its own songs. 

But has not also my leave-taking any gift to offer you? 

That gift is my secret hope, which I keep hidden in the shadows 
of your flower garden. 

That the rains of July may sweetly temper your fiery June. 

His boldness was immense, — ^boldness which had no 
veil, but was naked as fire. One finds no time to stop 
it: it is like trying to resist a thunder-bolt: the light- 
ning flashes: it laughs at all resistance. 

I left the room. As I was passing along the veran- 
dah towards the inner apartments, Amulya suddenly 
made his appearance and came and stood before me. 

‘ Fear nothing, Sister Rani,’ he said. ‘ I am off to- 
night and shall not return unsuccessful.’ 


BIMALA’S STORY 


223 


‘ Amulya/ said I, looking straight into his earnest, 
youthful face, ‘ I fear nothing for myself, but may I 
never cease to fear for you.’ 

Amulya turned to go, but before he was out of sight 
I called him back and asked : ‘ Have you a mother, 
Amulya ? ’ 

‘ I have.’ 

‘ A sister ? ’ 

‘ No, I am the only child of my mother. My father 
died when I was quite little.’ 

‘ Then go back to your mother, Amulya.’ 

‘ But Sister Rani, I have now both mother and sister.’ 

‘ Then, Amulya, before you leave to-night, come and 
have your dinner here.’ 

‘ There won’t be time for that. Let me take some 
food for the journey, consecrated with your touch.’ 

‘ What do you specially like, Amulya ? ’ 

* If I had been with my mother, I should have had 
lots of Poush cakes. Make some for me with your 
own hands, Sister Rani ! ’ 


CHAPTER X 
nikhil's story 

XII 

I LEARNT from my master that Sandip had joined 
forces with Harish Kundu, and there was to be a grand 
celebration of the worship of the demon-destroying 
Goddess. Harish Kundu was extorting the expenses 
from his tenantry. Pandits Kaviratna and Vidyavagish 
had been commissioned to compose a hymn with a 
double meaning. 

My master has just had a passage at arms with 
Sandip over this. ‘ Evolution is at work amongst the 
gods as well/ says Sandip. * The grandson has to re- 
model the gods created by the grandfather to suit his 
own taste, or else he is left an atheist. It is my mission 
to modernise the ancient deities. I am born the saviour 
of the gods, to emancipate them from the thraldom of 
the past.’ 

I have seen from our boyhood what a juggler with 
ideas is Sandip. He has no interest in discovering 
truth, but to make a quizzical display of it rejoices his 
heart. Had he been born in the wilds of Africa he 
would have spent a glorious time inventing argument 


224 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


225 


after argument to prove that cannibalism is the best 
means of promoting true communion between man and 
man. But those who deal in delusion end by deluding 
themselves, and I fully believe that, each time Sandip 
creates a new fallacy, he persuades himself that he has 
found the truth, however contradictory his creations 
may be to one another. 

However, I shall not give a helping hand to estab- 
lish a liquor distillery in my country. The young men, 
who are ready to offer their services for their country’s 
cause, must not fall into this habit of getting intoxi- 
cated. The people who want to exact work by drugging 
methods set more value on the excitement than on the 
minds they intoxicate. 

I had to tell Sandip, in Bimala’s presence, that he 
must go. Perhaps both will impute to me the wrong 
motive. But I must free myself also from all fear of 
being misunderstood. Let even Bimala misunderstand 

me. . . . 

A number of Mahomedan preachers are being sent 
over from Dacca. The Mussulmans in my territory 
had come to have almost as much of an aversion to the 
killing of cows as the Hindus. But now cases of cow- 
killing are cropping up here and there. I had the news 
first from some of my Mussulman tenants with expres- 
sions of their disapproval. Here was a situation which 
I could see would be difficult to meet. At the bottom 


Q 


226 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


was a pretence of fanaticism, which would cease to be 
a pretence if obstructed. That is just where the in- 
genuity of the move came in ! 

I sent for some of my principal Hindu tenants and 
tried to get them to see the matter in its proper light. 
‘ We can be staunch in our own convictions,’ I said, 
‘ but we have no control over those of others. For 
all that many of us are Vaishnavas, those of us who are 
Shaktas go on with their animal sacrifices just the 
same. That cannot be helped. We must, in the same 
way, let the Mussulmans do as they think best. So 
please refrain from all disturbance.’ 

‘ Maharaja,’ they replied, ‘ these outrages have been 
unknown for so long.’ 

‘ That was so,’ I said, ‘ because such was their spon- 
taneous desire. Let us behave in such a way that the 
same may become true, over again. But a breach of 
the peace is not the way to bring this about.’ 

‘ No, Maharaja,’ they insisted, ‘ those good old days 
are gone. This will never stop unless you put it down 
with a strong hand.’ 

‘ Oppression,’ I replied, ‘ will not only not prevent 
cow-killing, it may lead to the killing of men as well.’ 

One of them had had an English education. He had 
learnt to repeat the phrases of the day. ‘ It is not a 
question of orthodoxy,’ he argued. ‘ Our country is 
mainly agricultural, and cows are . . . ’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


227 


‘ Buffaloes in this country/ I interrupted, ‘ likewise 
give milk and are used for ploughing. And therefore, 
so long as we dance frantic dances on our temple pave- 
ments, smeared with their blood, their severed heads 
carried on our shoulders, religion will only laugh at us 
if we quarrel with Mussulmans in her name, and noth- 
ing but the quarrel itself will remain true. If the cow 
alone is to be held sacred from slaughter, and not the 
buffalo, then that is bigotry, not religion.^ 

‘ But are you not aware, sir, of what is behind all 
this ? ’ pursued the English-knowing tenant. ‘ This 
has only become possible because the Mussulman is 
assured of safety, even if he breaks the law. Have you 
not heard of the Pachur case? ’ 

‘ Why is it possible,’ I asked, ‘ to use the Mussulmans 
thus, as tools against us? Is it not because we have 
fashioned them into such with our own intolerance? 
That is how Providence punishes us. Our accumulated 
sins are being visited on our own heads.’ 

‘ Oh, well, if that be so, let them be visited on us. 
But we shall have our revenge. We have undermined 
what was the greatest strength of the authorities, their 
devotion to their own laws. Once they were truly 
kings, dispensing justice; now they themselves will 
become law-breakers, and so no better than robbers. 
This may not go down to history, but we shall carry it 
in our hearts for all time. . . . ’ 


228 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


The evil reports about me which are spreading from 
paper to paper are making me notorious. News comes 
that my effigy has been burnt at the river-side burning 
ground of the Chakravartis, with due ceremony and 
enthusiasm; and other insults are in contemplation. 
The trouble was that they had come to ask me to take 
shares in a Cotton Mill they wanted to start. I had to 
tell them that I did not so much mind the loss of my 
own money, but I would not be a party to causing a 
loss to so many poor shareholders. 

* Are we to understand, Maharaja,^ said my visitors, 
‘ that the prosperity of the country does not interest 
you? ’ 

‘ Industry may lead to the country’s prosperity,’ I 
explained, ‘ but a mere desire for its prosperity will not 
make for success in industry. Even when our heads 
were cool, our industries did not flourish. Why should 
we suppose that they will do so just because we have 
become frantic? ’ 

^ Why not say plainly that you will not risk your 
money ? ’ 

‘ I will put in my money when I see that it is in- 
dustry which prompts you. But, because you have 
lighted a fire, it does not follow that you have the food 
to cook over it.’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


229 


XIII 

What is this ? Our Chakua sub-treasury looted ! A 
remittance of Rs. 7500 was due from there to head- 
quarters. The local cashier had changed the cash at 
the Government Treasury into small currency notes 
for convenience in carrying, and had kept them ready 
in bundles. In the middle of the night an armed band 
had raided the room, and wounded Kasim, the man 
on guard. The curious part of it was that they had 
taken only Rs. 6000 and left the rest scattered on the 
floor, though it would have been as easy to carry that 
away also. Anyhow, the raid of the dacoits was over; 
now the police raid would begin. Peace was out of the 
question. 

When I went inside, I found the news had travelled 
before me. ‘ What a terrible thing, brother,’ exclaimed 
the Bara Rani. ‘ Whatever shall we do ? ’ 

I made light of the matter to reassure her. ‘ We still 
have something left,’ I said with a smile. * We shall 
manage to get along somehow.’ 

‘ Don’t joke about it, brother dear. Why are they 
all so angry with you ? Can’t you humour them ? Why 
put everybody out ? ’ 

‘ I cannot let the country go to rack and ruin, even 
if that would please everybody.’ 

‘ That was a shocking thing they did at the burning- 


230 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


grounds. It’s a horrid shame to treat you so. The 
Chota Rani has got rid of all her fears by dint of the 
Englishwoman’s teaching, but as for me, I had to send 
for the priest to avert the omen before I could get any 
peace of mind. For my sake, dear, do get away to 
Calcutta. I tremble to think what they may do, if you 
stay on here.’ 

My sister-in-law’s genuine anxiety touched me 
deeply. 

‘ And, brother,’ she went on, ‘ did I not warn you, 
it was not well to keep so much money in your room? 
They might get wind of it any day. It is not the money, 
— ^but who knows . . . ’ 

To calm her I promised to remove the money to the 
treasury at once, and then get it away to Calcutta with 
the first escort going. We went together to my bed- 
room. The dressing-room door was shut. When I 
knocked, Bimala called out : ‘ I am dressing.’ 

‘ I wonder at the Chota Rani,’ exclaimed my sister- 
in-law, ‘ dressing so early in the day ! One of their 
Bande Mataram meetings, I suppose.’ ‘ Robber Queen!’ 
she called out in jest to Bimala. * Are you counting 
your spoils inside ? ’ 

‘ I will attend to the money a little later,’ I said, as I 
came away to my office room outside. 

I found the Police Inspector waiting for me. ‘ Any 
trace of the dacoits ? ’ I asked. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


231 

‘ I have my suspicions/ 

‘ On whom ? ^ 

‘ Kasim, the guard/ 

* Kasim ? But was he not wounded ? ’ 

‘ A mere nothing. A flesh wound on the leg. Prob- 
ably self-inflicted.’ 

‘ But I cannot bring myself to believe it. He is such 
a trusted servant.’ 

‘ You may have trusted him, but that does not pre- 
vent his being a thief. Have I not seen men trusted 
for twenty years together, suddenly developing . . . ' 

‘ Even if it were so, I could not send him to gaol. 
But why should he have left the rest of the money lying 
about? ’ 

‘ To put us off the scent. Whatever you may say, 
Maharaja, he must be an old hand at the game. He 
mounts guard during his watch, right enough, but I 
feel sure he has a finger in all the dacoities going on in 
the neighbourhood.’ 

With this the Inspector proceeded to recount the 
various methods by which it was possible to be con- 
cerned in a dacoity twenty or thirty miles away, and 
yet be back in time for duty. 

‘ Have you brought Kasim here ? ’ I asked. 

‘ No,’ was the reply, ‘ he is in the lock-up. The 
Magistrate is due for the investigation.’ 

‘ I want to see him,’ I said. 


232 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


When I went to his cell he fell at my feet, weeping. 
^ In God’s name,’ he said, ‘ I swear I did not do this 
thing.’ 

‘ I do not doubt you, Kasim,’ I assured him. ‘ Fear 
nothing. They can do nothing to you, if you are in- 
nocent.’ 

Kasim, however, was unable to give a coherent ac- 
count of the incident. He was obviously exaggerating. 
Four or five hundred men, big guns, numberless 
swords, figured in his narrative. It must have been 
either his disturbed state of mind, or a desire to account 
for his easy defeat. He would have it that this 
was Harish Kundu’s doing; he was even sure he had 
heard the voice of Ekram, the head retainer of the 
Kundus. 

‘ Look here, Kasim,’ I had to warn him, ‘ don’t you 
be dragging other people in with your stories. You 
are not called upon to make out a case against Harish 
Kundu, or anybody else.’ 


XIV 

On returning home I asked my master to come over. 
He shook his head gravely. ‘ I see no good in this, — ’ 
said he, ‘ this setting aside of conscience and putting 
the country in its place. All the sins of the country will 
now break out, hideous and unashamed.’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


233 


* Who do you think could have . . . ’ 

‘ Don’t ask me. But sin is rampant. Send them 
all away, right away from here.’ 

‘ I have given them one more day. They will be 
leaving the day after to-morrow.’ 

‘ And another thing. Take Bimala away to Cal- 
cutta. She is getting too narrow a view of the outside 
world from here, she cannot see men and things in 
their true proportions. Let her see the world, — men 
and their work, — give her a broad vision.’ 

‘ That is exactly what I was thinking.’ 

‘ Well, don’t make any delay about it. I tell you, 
Nikhil, man’s history has to be built by the united ef- 
fort of all the races in the world, and therefore this 
selling of conscience for political reasons, — this making 
a fetish of one’s country, won’t do. I know that Eu- 
rope does not at heart admit this, but there she has not 
the right to pose as our teacher. Men who die for the 
truth, become immortal: and if a whole people can 
die for the truth, it will also achieve immortality in the 
history of humanity. Here, in this land of India, amid 
the mocking laughter of Satan piercing the sky, may 
the feeling for this truth become real! What a ter- 
rible epidemic of sin has been brought into our country 
from foreign lands . . . ’ 

The whole day passed in the turmoil of investigation. 
I was tired out when I retired for the night. I left over 


234 the home and the WORLD 


sending my sister-in-law’s money to the treasury till 
next morning. 

I woke up from my sleep at dead of night. The 
room was dark. I thought I heard a moaning some- 
where. Somebody must have been crying. Sounds 
of sobbing came heavy with tears like fitful gusts of 
wind in the rainy night. It seemed to me that the cry 
rose from the heart of my room itself. I was alone. 
For some days Bimala had her bed in another room 
adjoining mine. I rose up and when I went out I 
found her in the balcony lying prone upon her face on 
the bare floor. 

This is something that cannot be written in words. 
He only knows it who sits in the bosom of the world 
and receives all its pangs in His own heart. The sky 
is dumb, the stars are mute, the night is still, and in the 
midst of it all that one sleepless cry ! 

We give these sufferings names, bad or good, ac- 
cording to the classifications of the books, but this 
agony which is welling up from a torn heart, pouring 
into the fathomless dark, has it any name? When in 
that midnight, standing under the silent stars, I looked 
upon that figure, my mind was struck with awe, and I 
said to myself : ‘ Who am I to judge her ! ’ O life, O 
death, O God of the infinite existence, I bow my head 
in silence to the mystery which is in you. 

Once I thought I should turn back. But I could not 


BIMALA’S STORY 


235 


I sat down on the ground near Bimala and placed my 
hand on her head. At the first touch her whole body 
seemed to stiffen, but the next moment the hardness 
gave way, and the tears burst out. I gently passed my 
fingers over her forehead. Suddenly her hands groping 
for my feet grasped them and drew them to herself, 
pressing them against her breast with such force that 
I thought her heart would break. 

BIMALA^S STORY 
XVIII 

Amulya is due to return from Calcutta this morning. 
I told the servants to let me know as soon as he arrived, 
but could not keep still. At last I went outside to await 
him in the sitting-room. 

When I sent him off to sell the jewels I must have 
been thinking only of myself. It never even crossed 
my mind that so young a boy, trying to sell such valu- 
able jewelry, would at once be suspected. So helpless 
are we women, we needs must place on others the bur- 
den of our danger. When we go to our death we drag 
down those who are about us. 

I had said with pride that I would save Amulya, — as 
if she who was drowning could save others. But in- 
stead of saving him, I have sent him to his doom. My 
little brother, such a sister have I been to you that 


236 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


Death must have smiled on that Brothers’ Day when I 
gave you my blessing, — I, who wander distracted with 
the burden of my own evil-doing. 

I feel to-day that man is at times attacked with evil 
as with the plague. Some germ finds its way in from 
somewhere, and then in the space of one night Death 
stalks in. Why cannot the stricken one be kept far 
away from the rest of the world? I, at least, have 
realised how terrible is the contagion, — like a fiery 
torch which burns that it may set the world on fire. 

It struck nine. I could not get rid of the idea that 
Amulya was in trouble, that he had fallen into the 
clutches of the police. There must be great excitement 
in the Police Office — whose are the jewels? — where did 
he get them? And in the end I shall have to furnish 
the answer, in public, before all the world. 

What is that answer to be? Your day has come at 
last, Bara Rani, you whom I have so long despised. 
You, in the shape of the public, the world, will have 
your revenge. O God, save me this time, and I will 
cast all my pride at my sister-in-law’s feet. 

I could bear it no longer. I went straight to the Bara 
Rani. She was in the verandah, spicing her betel 
leaves, Thako at her side. The sight of Thako made 
me shrink back for a moment, but I overcame all hesi- 
tation, and making a low obeisance I took the dust of 
my elder sister-in-law’s feet. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


237 


' Bless my soul, Chota Rani,’ she exclaimed, ‘ what 
has come upon you ? Why this sudden reverence ? ’ 

‘ It is my birthday, sister,’ said I. ‘ I have often 
caused you pain. Give me your blessing to-day that I 
may never do so again. My mind is so small.’ I re- 
peated my obeisance and left her hurriedly, but she 
called me back. 

‘ You never before told me that this was your birth- 
day, Chotie darling ! Be sure to come and have lunch 
with me this afternoon. You positively must.’ 

0 God, let it really be my birthday to-day. Can I 
not be bom over again? Cleanse me, my God, and 
purify me and give me one more trial ! 

1 went again to the sitting-room to find Sandip 
there. A feeling of disgust seemed to poison my 
very blood. The face of his, which I saw in the 
morning light, had nothing of the magic radiance of 
genius. 

‘ Will you leave the room,’ I blurted out. 

Sandip smiled. ‘ Since Amulya is not here,’ he re- 
marked, ‘ I should think my turn had come for a spe- 
cial talk.’ 

My fate was coming back upon me. How was I to 
take away the right I myself had given. ‘ I would be 
alone,’ I repeated. 

‘ Queen,’ he said, ‘ the presence of another person 
does not prevent your being alone. Do not mistake 


238 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


me for one of the crowd. I, Sandip, am always alone, 
even when surrounded by thousands.' 

‘ Please come some other time. This morning I 

am ... ' 

‘ Waiting for Amulya? ' 

I turned to leave the room for sheer vexation, when 
Sandip drew out from the folds of his cloak that jewel 
casket of mine and banged it down on the marble table. 
I was thoroughly startled. ‘ Has not Amulya gone, 
then ? ' I exclaimed. 

‘ Gone where ? ' 

‘ To Calcutta? ' 

‘ No,' chuckled Sandip. 

Ah, then my blessing had come true, in spite of all. 
He was saved. Let God's punishment fall on me, the 
thief, if only Amulya be safe. 

The change in my countenance roused Sandip's 
scorn. * So pleased. Queen ! ' sneered he. ‘ Are these 
jewels so very precious? How then did you bring 
yourself to offer them to the Goddess? Your gift was 
actually made. Would you now take it back? ' 

Pride dies hard and raises its fangs to the last. It 
was clear to me I must show Sandip I did not care a 
rap about these jewels. ‘ If they have excited your 
greed,' I said, " you may have them.’ 

‘ My greed to-day embraces the wealth of all Ben- 
gal,' replied Sandip. * Is there a greater force than 


BIMALA’S STORY 


239 


greed? It is the steed of the great ones of the earth, 
as is the elephant, Airauat, the steed of Indra. So then 
these jewels are mine? ’ 

As Sandip took up and replaced the casket under his 
cloak, Amulya rushed in. There were dark rings under 
his eyes, his lips were dry, his hair tumbled : the fresh- 
ness of his youth seemed to have withered in a single 
day. Pangs gripped my heart as I looked on him. 

‘ My box ! ’ he cried, as he went straight up to San- 
dip without a glance at me. ‘ Have you taken that 
jewel-box from my trunk? ’ 

‘ Your jewel-box? ’ mocked Sandip. 

* It was my trunk 1 ^ 

Sandip burst out into a laugh. ‘ Your distinctions 
between mine and yours are getting rather thin, 
Amulya,' he cried. ‘You will die a religious preacher 
yet, I see.’ 

Amulya sank on a chair with his face in his hands. 
I went up to him and placing my hand on his head 
asked him : ‘ What is your trouble, Amulya ? ’ 

He stood straight up as he replied : ‘ I had set my 
heart. Sister Rani, on returning your jewels to you with 
my own hand. Sandip Babu knew this, but he fore- 
stalled me.’ 

‘ What do I care for my jewels ? ’ I said. * Let them 
go. No harm is done.’ 

‘ Go? Where? ’ asked the mystified boy. 


240 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


‘ The jewels are mine,’ said Sandip. ‘ Insignia be- 
stowed on me by my Queen ! ’ 

‘ No, no, no,’ broke out Amulya wildly. ‘ Never, 
Sister Rani ! I brought them back for you. You shall 
not give them away to anybody else.’ 

‘ I accept your gift, my little brother,’ said I. * But 
let him, who hankers after them, satisfy his greed.’ 

Amulya glared at Sandip like a beast of prey, as he 
growled : ‘ Look here, Sandip Babu, you know that 
even hanging has no terrors for me. If you dare take 
away that box of jewels . . . ’ 

With an attempt at a sarcastic laugh Sandip said: 
‘ You also ought to know by this time, Amulya, that I 
am not the man to be afraid of you.’ 

‘ Queen Bee,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘ I did not 
come here to-day to take these jewels, I came to give 
them to you. You would have done wrong to take 
my gift at Amulya’s hands. In order to prevent it, I 
had first to make them clearly mine. Now these my 
jewels are my gift to you. Here they are! Patch up 
any understanding with this boy you like. I must go. 
You have been at your special talks all these days 
together, leaving me out of them. If special happen- 
ings now come to pass, don’t blame me.’ 

‘ Amulya,’ he continued, ‘ I have sent on your 
trunks and things to your lodgings. Don’t you be 
keeping any belongings of yours in my room any 


BIMALA’S STORY 


241 


longer.’ With this parting shot, Sandip flung out of 
the room. 

XIX 

‘ I have had no peace of mind, Amulya,’ I said to 
him, ‘ ever since I sent you off to sell my jewels.’ 

' Why, sister Rani ? ’ 

‘ I was afraid lest you should get into trouble with 
them, lest they should suspect you for a thief. I would 
rather go without that six thousand. You must now 
do another thing for me, — go home at once, home to 
your mother.’ 

Amulya produced a small bundle and said : ‘ But, 
sister, I have got the six thousand.’ 

‘ Where from? ’ 

‘ I tried hard to get gold,’ he went on, without reply- 
ing to my question, ‘ but could not. So I had to bring 
it in notes.’ 

‘ Tell me truly, Amulya, swear by me, where did 
you get this money ? ’ 

‘ That I will not tell you.’ 

Everything seemed to grow dark before my eyes. 
‘ What terrible thing have you done, Amulya ? ’ I 
cried. * Is it then . . . ’ 

‘ I know you will say I got this money wrongly. 
Very well, I admit it. But I have paid the full price 
for my wrong-doing. So now the money is mine.’ 


242 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I no longer had any desire to learn more about it. 
My very blood-vessels contracted, making my whole 
body shrink within itself. 

* Take it away, Amulya,’ I implored. * Put it back 
where you got it from.’ 

‘ That would be hard indeed ! ’ 

‘ It is not hard, brother dear. It was an evil mo- 
ment when you first came to me. Even Sandip has 
not been able to harm you as I have done.’ 

Sandip’s name seemed to stab him. 

‘ Sandip ! ’ he cried. ‘ It was you alone who made 
me come to know that man for what he is. Do you 
know, sister, he has not spent a pice out of those 
sovereigns he took from you? He shut himself into 
his room, after he left you, and gloated over the gold, 
pouring it out in a heap on the floor. “ This is not 
money,” he exclaimed, “ but the petals of the divine 
lotus of power; crystallised strains of music from the 
pipes that play in the paradise of wealth! I cannot 
find it in my heart to change them, for they seem 
longing to fulfil their destiny of adorning the neck of 
Beauty. Amulya, my boy, don’t you look at these 
with your fleshly eye, they are Lakshmi’s smile, the 
gracious radiance of Indra’s queen. No, no, I can’t 
give them up to that boor of a manager. I am sure, 
Amulya, he was telling us lies. The police haven’t 
traced the man who sunk that boat. It’s the manager 


BIMALA’S STORY 


243 

who wants to make something out of it. We must 
get those letters back from him.’’ 

* I asked him how we were to do this ; he told me 
to use force or threats. I offered to do so if he could 
return the gold. That, he said, we could consider 
later. I will not trouble you, sister, with all I did to 
frighten the man into giving up those letters and burn 
them, — it is a long story. That very night I came to 
Sandip and said: “ We are now safe. Let me have 
the sovereigns to return them to-morrow to my sister, 
the Maharani.” But he cried, ‘‘ What infatuation is 
this of yours? Your precious sister’s skirt bids fair 
to hide the whole country from you. Say Bande 
Mataram and exorcise the evil spirit.” 

* You know, sister Rani, the power of Sandip’s 
magic. The gold remained with him. And I spent 
the whole dark night on the bathing-steps of the lake 
muttering Bande Mataram. 

‘ Then when you gave me your jewels to sell, I went 
again to Sandip. I could see he was angry with me. 
But he tried not to show it. “ If I still have them 
hoarded up in any box of mine you make take them,” 
said he, as he flung me his keys. They were nowhere 
to be seen. ‘‘ Tell me where they are,” I said. “ I 
will do so,” he replied, “ when I find your infatuation 
has left you. Not now.” 

‘When I found I could not move him, T had to 


244 the home and THE WORLD 


employ other methods. Then I tried to get the sov- 
ereigns from him in exchange for my currency notes 
for Rs. 6000. “You shall have them/’ he said, and 
disappeared into his bedroom, leaving me waiting out- 
side. There he broke open my trunk and came straight 
to you with your casket through some other passage. 
He would not let me bring it, and now he dares call it 
his gift. How can I tell how much he has deprived 
me of ? I shall never forgive him. 

* But, oh sister, his power over me has been utterly 
broken. And it is you who have broken it ! ’ 

‘ Brother, dear,’ said I, ‘ if that is so, then my life 
is justified. But more remains to be done, Amulya. 
It is not enough that the spell has been destroyed. 
Its stains must be washed away. Don’t delay any 
longer, go at once and put back the money where you 
took it from. Can you not do it, dear? ’ 

‘ With your blessing everything is possible, sister 
Rani.* 

‘ Remember, it will not be your expiation alone, but 
mine also. I am a woman ; the outside world is closed 
to me, else I would have gone myself. My hardest 
punishment is that I must put on you the burden of 
my sin.’ 

‘ Don’t say that, sister. The path I was treading 
was not your path. It attracted me because of its 
dangers and difficulties. Now that your path calls 


BIMALA^S STORY 


245 


me, let it be a thousand times more difficult and dan- 
gerous, the dust of your feet will help me to win 
through. Is it then your command that this money 
be replaced ? ^ 

‘ Not my command, brother mine, but a command 
from above.’ 

‘ Of that I know nothing. It is enough for me that 
this command from above comes from your lips. 
And, sister, I thought I had an invitation here. I 
must not lose that. You must give me your prasad'^ 
before I go. Then, if I can possibly manage it, I will 
finish my duty in the evening.’ 

Tears came to my eyes when I tried to smile as I 
said : ‘ So be it.’ 

ipood consecrated by the touch of a revered person. 


CHAPTER XI 


bimala’s story 

XX 

With Amulya^s departure my heart sank within me. 
On what perilous adventure had I sent this only son 
of his mother? O God, why need my expiation have 
such pomp and circumstance ? Could I not be allowed 
to suffer alone without inviting all this multitude to 
share my punishment ? Oh, let not this innocent child 
fall victim to Your wrath. 

I called him back, — ‘ Amulya ! ^ 

My voice sounded so feebly, it failed to reach him. 
I went up to the door and called again : ‘ Amulya ! ’ 
He had gone. 

* Who is there ? ^ 

* Rani Mother ! ’ 

* Go and tell Amulya Babu that I want him.’ 

What exactly happened I could not make out, — the 

man, perhaps, was not familiar with Amulya’s name, 
— ^but he returned almost at once followed by Sandip. 

‘ The very moment you sent me away,’ he said as 
he came in, ‘ I had a presentiment that you would call 
me back. The attraction of the same moon causes 


246 


BIMALA’S STORY 


247 


both ebb and flow. I was so sure of being sent for, 
that I was actually waiting out in the passage. As 
soon as I caught sight of your man, coming from your 
room, I said : “ Yes, yes, I am coming, I am coming 
at once ! ” — ^before he could utter a word. That up- 
country lout was surprised, I can tell you ! He stared 
at me, open-mouthed, as if he thought I knew magic.' 

‘All the fights in the world. Queen Bee,' Sandip 
rambled on, ‘ are really fights between hypnotic forces. 
Spell cast against spell, — noiseless weapons which 
reach even invisible targets. At last I have met in 
you my match. Your quiver is full, I know, you art- 
ful warrior Queen ! You are the only one in the world 
who has been able to turn Sandip out and call Sandip 
back, at your sweet will. Well, your quarry is at 
your feet. What will you do with him now? Will 
you give him the coup de grace, or keep him in your 
cage ? Let me warn you beforehand. Queen, you will 
find the beast as difficult to kill outright as to keep in 
bondage. Anyway, why lose time in trying your 
magic weapons ? ' 

Sandip must have felt the shadow of approaching 
defeat, and this made him try to gain time by chat- 
tering away without waiting for a reply. I believe 
he knew that I had sent the messenger for Amulya, 
whose name the man must have mentioned. In spite 
of that he had deliberately played this trick. He was 


248 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


now trying to avoid giving me any opening to tell him 
that it was Amulya I wanted, not him. But his strata- 
gem was futile, for I could see his weakness through 
it. I must not yield up a pin’s point of the ground I 
had gained. 

‘ Sandip Babu,’ I said, ‘ I wonder how you can go 
on making these endless speeches, without a stop. Do 
you get them up by heart, beforehand ? ’ 

Sandip’s face flushed instantly. 

‘ I have heard,’ I continued, ‘ that our professional 
reciters keep a book full of all kinds of ready-made 
discourses, which can be fitted into any subject. Have 
you also a book ? ’ 

Sandip ground out his reply through his teeth. 
‘ God has given you women a plentiful supply of 
coquetry to start with, and on the top of that you have 
the milliner and the jeweller to help you; but do not 
think we men are so helpless . . .’ 

‘ You had better go back and look up your book, 
Sandip Babu. You are getting your words all wrong. 
That’s just the trouble with trying to repeat things 
by rote.’ 

‘ You,’ shouted Sandip, losing all control over him- 
self. ‘You to insult me thus! What is there left of 
you that I do not know to the very bottom? What 
. . .’ He became speechless. 

Sandip, the wielder of magic spells, is reduced to 


BIMALA’S STORY 


249 


utter powerlessness, whenever his spell refuses to work. 
From a king he fell to the level of a boor. Oh, the 
joy of witnessing his weakness! The harsher he 
became in his rudeness, the more did this joy well up 
within me. His snaky coils, with which he used to 
snare me, are exhausted, — I am free. I am saved, 
saved. Be rude to me, insult me, for that shows you 
in your truth ; but spare me your songs of praise, which 
were false. 

My husband came in at this juncture. Sandip had 
not the elasticity to recover himself in a moment, as 
he used to do before. My husband looked at him for 
a while in surprise. Had this happened some days 
ago I should have felt ashamed. But to-day I was 
pleased, — whatever my husband might think. I 
wanted to have it out to the finish with my weakening 
adversary. 

Finding us both silent and constrained, my husband 
hesitated a little, and then took a chair. ‘ Sandip,’ 
he said, ‘ I have been looking for you, and was told 
you were here.’ 

‘ I am here,’ said Sandip with some emphasis. 
' Queen Bee sent for me early this morning. And I, 
the humble worker of the hive, left all else to attend 
her summons.’ 

‘ I am going to Calcutta to-morrow. You will come 
with me.’ 


250 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

^ And why, pray ? Do you take me for one of your 
retinue ? ’ 

‘ Oh, very well, take it that you are going to Cal- 
cutta, and that I am your follower/ 

‘ I have no business there/ 

‘ All the more reason for going. You have too 
much business here/ 

* I don^t propose to stir/ 

‘ Then I propose to shift you.’ 

* Forcibly? ’ 

* Forcibly.’ 

* Very well, then, I will make a move. But the 
world is not divided between Calcutta and your estates. 
There are other places on the map.’ 

^ From the way you have been going on, one would 
hardly have thought that there was any other place 
in the world except my estates.’ 

Sandip stood up. ‘ It does happen at times,’ he 
said, * that a man’s whole world is reduced to a single 
spot. I have realised my universe in this sitting-room 
of yours, that is why I have been a fixture here.’ 

Then he turned to me. ^ None but you, Queen Bee,’ 
he said, ‘ will understand my words, — ^perhaps not even 
you. I salute you. With worship in my heart I leave 
you. My watchword has changed since you have 
come across my vision. It is no longer Bande Mat^ 
aram (Hail Mother), but Hail Beloved, Hail Enchan- 


BIMALA^S STORY 


251 

tress. The mother protects, the mistress leads to 
destruction, — ^but sweet is that destruction. You have 
made the anklet sounds of the dance of death tinkle 
in my heart. You have changed for me, your devotee, 
the picture I had of this Bengal of ours, — “ the soft 
breeze-cooled land of pure water and sweet fruit.'' ^ 
You have no pity, my beloved. You have come to me 
with your poison cup and I shall drain it, either to 
die in agony, or live triumphing over death. 

* Yes,' he continued. ‘ The mother's day is past. 

0 love, my love, you have made as naught for me the 
truth and right and heaven itself. All duties have 
become as shadows: all rules and restraints have 
snapped their bonds. O love, my love, I could set fire 
to all the world outside this land on which you have 
set your dainty feet, and dance in mad revel over the 
ashes. . . . These are mild men. These are good 
men. They would do good to all, — as if this all were 
a reality! No, no! There is no reality in the world 
save this one real love of mine. I do you reverence. 
My devotion to you has made me cruel; my worship 
of you has lighted the raging flame of destruction 
within me. I am not righteous. I have no beliefs, 

1 only believe in her whom, above all else in the world, 
I have been able to realise.' 

Wonderful! It was wonderful, indeed. Only a 
^ Quotation from the National Song , — Bande Mataram, 


252 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


minute ago I had despised this man with all my heart. 
But what I had thought to be dead ashes now glowed 
with living fire. The fire in him is true, that is beyond 
doubt. Oh why has God made man such a mixed 
creature? Was it only to show His supernatural 
sleight of hand? Only a few minutes ago I had 
thought that Sandip, whom I had once taken to be a 
hero, was only the stage hero of melodrama. But that 
is not so, not so. Even behind the trappings of the 
theatre, a true hero may sometimes be lurking. 

There is much in Sandip that is coarse, that is 
sensuous, that is false, much that is overlaid with layer 
after layer of fleshly covering. Yet, — yet it is best 
to confess that there is a great deal in the depths of 
him which we do not, cannot understand, — much in 
ourselves too. A wonderful thing is man. What 
great mysterious purpose he is working out only the 
Terrible One ^ knows, — meanwhile we groan under 
the brunt of it. Shiva is the Lord of Chaos. He is 
all Joy. He will destroy our bonds. 

I cannot but feel, again and again, that there are 
two persons in me. One recoils from Sandip in his 
terrible aspect of Chaos> — the other feels that very 
vision to be sweetly alluring. The sinking ship drags 
down all who are swimming round it. Sandip is just 
such a force of destruction. His immense attraction 
1 Rudra, the Terrible, a name of Shiva. — Tr. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


253 


gets hold of one before fear can come to the rescue, and 
then, in the twinkling of an eye, one is drawn away, 
irresistibly, from all light, all good, all freedom of the 
sky, all air that can be breathed, — from lifelong accu- 
mulations, from everyday cares — right to the bottom 
of dissolution. 

From some realm of calamity has Sandip come as 
its messenger; and as he stalks the land, muttering 
unholy incantations, to him flock all the boys and 
youths. The mother, seated in the lotus-heart of the 
Country, is wailing her heart out ; for they have broken 
open her store-room, there to hold their drunken rev- 
elry. Her vintage of the draught for the immortals 
they would pour out on the dust; her time-honoured 
vessels they would smash to pieces. True, I feel with 
her ; but, at the same time, I cannot help being infected 
with their excitement. 

Truth itself has sent us this temptation to test our 
trustiness in upholding its commandments. Intoxica- 
tion masquerades in heavenly garb, and dances before 
the pilgrims saying : ‘ Fools you are that pursue the 
fruitless path of renunciation. Its way is long, its 
time passing slow. So the Wielder of the Thunder- 
bolt has sent me to you. Behold, I the beautiful, the 
passionate, I will accept you, — in my embrace you shall 
find fulfilment.’ 

After a pause Sandip addressed me again : * God- 


254 the home and THE WORLD 

dess, the time has come for me to leave you. It is 
well. The work of your nearness has been done. By 
lingering longer it would only become undone again, 
little by little. All is lost, if in our greed we try to 
cheapen that which is the greatest thing on earth. That 
which is eternal within the moment only becomes shal- 
low if spread out in time. We were about to spoil 
our infinite moment, when it was your uplifted thun- 
derbolt which came to the rescue. You intervened to 
save the purity of your own worship, — and in so doing 
you also saved your worshipper. In my leave-taking 
to-day your worship stands out the biggest thing. 
Goddess, I, also, set you free to-day. My earthen 
temple could hold you no longer, — every moment it 
was on the point of breaking apart. To-day I depart 
to worship your larger image in a larger temple. I can 
gain you more truly only at a distance from yourself. 
Here I had only your favour, there I shall be vouch- 
safed your boon.’ 

My jewel casket was lying on the table. I held it 
up aloft as I said : ‘ I charge you to convey these my 
jewels to the object of my worship, — to whom I have 
dedicated them through you.’ 

My husband remained silent. Sandip left the room. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


2SS 


XXI 

I had just sat down to make some cakes for Amulya 
when the Bara Rani came upon the scene. ‘ Oh dear/ 
she exclaimed, ‘ has it come to this that you must make 
cakes for your own birthday ? ’ 

‘ Is there no one else for whom I could be making 
them ? ’ I asked. 

‘ But this is not the day when you should think of 
feasting others. It is for us to feast you. I was just 
thinking of making something up ^ when I heard the 
staggering news which completely upset me. A gang 
of five or six hundred men, they say, has raided one 
of our treasuries and made off with six thousand 
rupees. Our house will be looted next, they expect.’ 

I felt greatly relieved. So it was our own money 
after all. I wanted to send for Amulya at once and 
tell him that he need only hand over those notes to 
my husband and leave the explanations to me. 

‘You are a wonderful creature!’ my sister-in-law 
broke out, at the change in my countenance. ‘ Have 
you then really no such thing as fear ? ’ 

‘ I cannot believe it,’ I said. ‘ Why should they loot 
our house ? ’ 

‘Not believe it, indeed! Who could have believed 
that they would attack our treasury, either ? ’ 

lAny dainties to be offered ceremonially should be made by 
the lady of the house herself.— -Tr. 


256 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

I made no reply, but bent over my cakes, putting in 
the cocoanut stuffing. 

‘ Well, I’m off,’ said the Bara Rani after a prolonged 
stare at me. ‘ I must see brother Nikhil and get some- 
thing done about sending off my money to Calcutta, 
before it’s too late.’ 

She was no sooner gone than I left the cakes to take 
care of themselves and rushed to my dressing-room, 
shutting myself inside. My husband’s tunic with the 
keys in its pocket was still hanging there, — so forget- 
ful was he. I took the key of the iron safe off the 
ring and kept it by me, hidden in the folds of my dress. 

Then there came a knocking at the door. ‘ I am 
dressing,’ I called out. I could hear the Bara Rani 
saying: *Only a minute ago I saw her making cakes 
and now she is busy dressing up. What next, I won- 
der ! One of their Bande Mataram meetings is on, I 
suppose. I say. Robber Queen,’ she called out to me, 
‘are you taking stock of your loot?’ 

When they went away I hardly know what made me 
open the safe. Perhaps there was a lurking hope 
that it might all be a dream. What if, on pulling out 
the inside drawer, I should find the rolls of gold there, 
just as before ? . . . Alas, everything was as empty 
as the trust which had been betrayed. 

I had to go through the farce of dressing. I had to 
do my hair up all over again, quite unnecessarily. 


BIMALA^S STORY 


257 

When I came out my sister-in-law railed at me : ‘ How 
many times are you going to dress to-day ? ’ 

‘ My birthday !’ I said. 

‘ Oh, any pretext seems good enough,’ she went on. 
‘ Many vain people have I seen in my day, but you 
beat them all hollow.’ 

I was about to summon a servant to send after 
Amulya, when one of the men came up with a little 
note, which he handed to me. It was from Amulya. 
‘ Sister,’ he wrote, ' you invited me this afternoon, but 
I thought I should not wait. Let me first execute your 
bidding and then come for my prasad. I may be a 
little late.’ 

To whom could he be going to return that money; 
into what fresh entanglement was the poor boy rush- 
ing? O miserable woman, you can only send him 
off like an arrow, but not recall him if you miss your 
aim. 

I should have declared at once that I was at the 
bottom of this robbery. But women live on the trust 
of their surroundings, — this is their whole world. If 
once it is out that this trust has been secretly betrayed, 
their place in their world is lost. They have then to 
stand upon the fragments of the thing they have 
broken, and its jagged edges keep on wounding them 
at every turn. To sin is easy enough, but to make up 
for it is above all difficult for a woman. 


258 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


For some time past all easy approaches for com- 
munion with my husband have been closed to me. 
How then could I burst on him with this stupendous 
news ? He was very late in coming for his meal to-day, 
— nearly two o’clock. He was absent-minded and 
hardly touched any food. I had lost even the right 
to press him to take a little more. I had to avert my 
face to wipe away my tears. 

I wanted so badly to say to him : * Do come into our 
room and rest awhile; you look so tired.’ I had just 
cleared my throat with a little cough, when a servant 
hurried in to say that the Police Inspector had brought 
Panchu up to the palace. My husband, with the 
shadow on his face deepened, left his meal imfinished 
and went out. 

A little later the Bara Rani appeared. * Why did 
you not send me word when Brother Nikhil came in? ’ 
she complained. ‘As he was late I thought I might 
as well finish my bath in the meantime. However did 
he manage to get through his meal so soon?’ 

‘ Why, did you want him for anything ? ’ 

‘ What is this about both of you going off to Cal- 
cutta to-morrow? All I can say is, I am not going 
to be left here alone. I should get startled out of my 
life at every sound, with all these dacoits about. Is it 
quite settled about your going to-morrow ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said I, though I had only just now heard it; 


BIMALA’S STORY 


259 


and though, moreover, I was not at all sure that before 
to-morrow our history might not take such a turn as 
to make it all one whether we went or stayed. After 
that, what our home, our life would be like, was utterly 
beyond my ken, — it seemed so misty and phantom-like. 

In a very few hours now my unseen fate would 
become visible. Was there no one who could keep on 
postponing the flight of these hours, from day to day, 
and so make them long enough for me to set things 
right, so far as lay in my power? The time during 
which the seed lies underground is long — so long in- 
deed that one forgets that there is any danger of its 
sprouting. But once its shoot shows up above the 
surface, it grows and grows so fast, there is no time 
to cover it up, neither with skirt, nor body, nor even 
life itself. 

I will try to think of it no more, but sit quiet, — 
passive and callous, — let the crash come when it may. 
By the day after to-morrow all will be over, — ^publicity, 
laughter, bewailing, questions, explanations, — every- 
thing. 

But I cannot forget the face of Amulya, — ^beautiful, 
radiant with devotion. He did not wait, despairing, 
for the blow of fate to fall, but rushed into the thick 
of danger. In my misery I do him reverence. He is 
my boy-god. Under the pretext of his playfulness he 
took from me the weight of my burden. He would 


26 o the home and the WORLD 


save me by taking the punishment meant for me on his 
own head. But how am I to bear this terrible mercy 
of my God? 

Oh my child, my child, I do you reverence. Little 
brother mine, I do you reverence. Pure are you, beau- 
tiful are you, I do you reverence. May you come to 
my arms, in the next birth, as my own child, — that is 
my prayer. 


XXII 

Rumour became busy on every side. The police 
were continually in and out. The servants of the 
house were in a great flurry. 

Khema, my maid, came up to me and said : ‘ Oh, 
Rani Mother! for goodness’ sake put away my gold 
necklace and armlets in your iron safe.’ To whom was 
I to explain that the Rani herself had been weaving all 
this network of trouble, and had got caught in it, too? 
I had to play the benign protector and take charge of 
Khema’s ornaments and Thako’s savings. The milk- 
woman, in her turn, brought along and kept in my room 
a box in which were a Benares sari and some other of 
her valued possessions. ‘ I got these at your wed- 
ding,’ she told me. 

When, to-morrow, my iron safe will be opened in 
the presence of these — Khema, Thako, the milk- 
woman and all the rest,, , , . Let me not think of it ! 


BIMALA’S STORY 


261 


Let me rather try to think what it will be like when 
this third day of Magh comes round again after a 
year has passed. Will all the wounds of my home 
life then be still as fresh as ever? . . . 

Amulya writes that he will come later in the evening. 
I cannot remain alone with my thoughts, doing noth- 
ing. So I sit down again to make cakes for him. I 
have finished making quite a quantity, but still I must 
go on. Who will eat them? I shall distribute them 
amongst the servants. I must do so this very night. 
To-night is my limit. To-morrow will not be in my 
hands. 

I went on untiringly, frying cake after cake. Every 
now and then it seemed to me that there was some 
noise in the direction of my rooms, upstairs. Could 
it be that my husband had missed the key of the safe, 
and the Bara Rani had assembled all the servants to 
help him to hunt for it? No, I must not pay heed to 
these sounds. Let me shut the door. 

I rose to do so, when Thako came panting in : ‘Rani 
Mother, Oh Rani Mother!’ 

‘ Oh, get away ! ’ I snapped out, cutting her short. 
‘ Don’t come bothering me.’ 

‘ The Bara Rani Mother wants you,’ she went on. 
‘ Her nephew has brought such a wonderful machine 
from Calcutta. It talks like a man. Do come and 
hear it 1 ’ 


262 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. So, of 
all things, a gramophone needs must come on the scene 
at such a time, repeating at every winding the nasal 
twang of its theatrical songs ! What a fearsome thing 
results when a machine apes a man. 

The shades of evening began to fall. I knew that 
Amulya would not delay to announce himself — yet I 
could not wait. I summoned a servant and said : ‘ Go 
and tell Amulya Babu to come straight in here.' The 
man came back after a while to say that Amulya was 
not in, — ^he had not come back since he had gone. 

* Gone ! ’ The last word struck my ears like a wail 
in the gathering darkness. Amulya gone! Had he 
then come like a streak of light from the setting sun, 
only to be gone for ever? All kinds of possible and 
impossible dangers flitted through my mind. It was 
I who had sent him to his death. What if he was 
fearless? That only showed his own greatness of 
heart. But after this how was I to go on living all 
by myself ? 

I had no memento of Amulya save that pistol, — ^his 
reverence offering. It seemed to me that this was a 
sign given by Providence. This guilt which had con- 
taminated my life at its very root, — my God in the 
form of a child had left with me the means of wiping 
it away, and then vanished. Oh the loving gift — the 
saving grace that lay hidden within it I 


BIMALA^S STORY 


263 


I opened my box and took out the pistol, lifting it 
reverently to my forehead. At that moment the gongs 
clanged out from the temple attached to our house. I 
prostrated myself in salutation. 

In the evening I feasted the whole household with 
my cakes. ‘ You have managed a wonderful birthday 
feast, — ^and all by yourself too V — exclaimed my sister- 
in-law. ‘ But you must leave something for us to do.’ 
With this she turned on her gramophone and let loose 
the shrill treble of the Calcutta actresses all over the 
place. It seemed like a stable full of neighing fillies. 

It got quite late before the feasting was over. I 
had a sudden longing to end my birthday celebration 
by taking the dust of my husband’s feet. I went up 
to the bedroom and found him fast asleep. He had 
had such a worrying, trying day. I raised the edge 
of the mosquito curtain very very gently, and laid my 
head near his feet. My hair must have touched him, 
for he moved his legs in his sleep and pushed my head 
away. 

I then went out and sat in the west verandah. A 
silk-cotton tree, which had shed all its leaves, stood 
there in the distance, like a skeleton. Behind it the 
crescent moon was setting. All of a sudden I had the 
feeling that the very stars in the sky were afraid of 
me, — ^that the whole of the night world was looking 
askance at me. Why ? Because I was alone. 


264 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


There is nothing so strange in creation as the man 
who is alone. Even he whose near ones have all died, 
one by one, is not alone, — companionship comes for 
him from behind the screen of death. But he, whose 
kin are there, yet no longer near, who has dropped 
out of all the varied companionship of a full home, — 
the starry universe itself seems to bristle to look on 
him in his darkness. 

Where I am, I am not. I am far away from those 
who are around me. I live and move upon a world- 
wide chasm of separation, unstable as the dew-drop 
upon the lotus leaf. 

Why do not men change wholly when they change ? 
When I look into my heart, I find everything that 
was there, still there, — only they are topsy-turvy. 
Things that were well-ordered have become jumbled 
up. The gems that were strung into a necklace 
are now rolling in the dust. And so my heart is 
breaking. 

I feel I want to die. Yet in my heart everything 
still lives, — nor even in death can I see the end of it 
all: rather, in death there seems to be ever so much 
more of repining. What is to be ended must be ended 
in this life, — there is no other way out. 

Oh forgive me just once, only this time. Lord! All 
that you gave into my hands as the wealth of my life, 
I have made into my burden. I can neither bear it 


BIMALA’S STORY 


265 


longer, nor give it up. O Lord, sound once again 
those flute strains which you played for me, long ago, 
standing at the rosy edge of my morning sky, — and 
let all my complexities become simple and easy. 
Nothing save the music of your flute can make whole 
that which has been broken, and pure that which has 
been sullied. Create my home anew with your music. 
No other way can I see. 

I threw myself prone on the ground and sobbed 
aloud. It was for mercy that I prayed, — some little 
mercy from somewhere, some shelter, some sign of 
forgiveness, some hope that might bring about the 
end. ‘ Lord,’ I vowed to myself, ‘ I will lie here, wait- 
ing and waiting, touching neither food nor drink, so 
long as your blessing does not reach me.’ 

I heard the sound of footsteps. Who says that the 
gods do not show themselves to mortal men? I did 
not raise my face to look up, lest the sight of it should 
break the spell. Come, oh come, come and let your 
feet touch my head. Come, Lord, and set your foot 
upon my throbbing heart, and at that moment let 
me die. 

He came and sat near my head. Who? My hus- 
band ! At the first touch of his presence I felt that I 
should swoon. And then the pain at my heart burst 
its way out in an overwhelming flood of tears, tearing 
through all my obstructing veins and nerves. I 


266 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


strained his feet to my bosom, — oh, why could not 
their impress remain there for ever? 

He tenderly stroked my head. I received his bless- 
ing. Now I shall be able to take up the penalty of 
public humiliation which will be mine to-morrow, and 
offer it, in all sincerity, at the feet of my God. 

But what keeps crushing my heart is the thought 
that the festive flutes which were played at my wed- 
ding, nine years ago, welcoming me to this house, will 
never sound for me again in this life. What rigour 
of penance is there which can serve to bring me once 
more, as a bride adorned for her husband, to my 
place upon that same bridal seat? How many years, 
how many ages, aeons, must pass before I can find 
my way back to that day of nine years ago? 

God can create new things, but has even He the 
power to create afresh that which has been destroyed? 


CHAPTER XII 

NIKHIL^S STORY 
XV 

To-day we are going to Calcutta. Our joys and sor- 
rows lie heavy on us if we merely go on accumulating 
them. Keeping them and accumulating them alike are 
false. As master of the house I am in an artificial 
position — in reality I am a wayfarer on the path of 
life. That is why the true Master of the House gets 
hurt at every step and at last there comes the supreme 
hurt of death. 

My union with you, my love, was only of the way- 
side; it was well enough so long as we followed the 
same road; it will only hamper us if we try to preserve 
it further. We are now leaving its bonds behind. 
We are started on our journey beyond, and it will be 
enough if we can throw each other a glance, or feel 
the touch of each other’s hands in passing. After 
that? After that there is the larger world-path, the 
endless current of universal life. 

How little can you deprive me of, my love, after all? 
Whenever I set my ear to it, I can hear the flute which 
is playing, its fountain of melody gushing forth from 
267 


268 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


the flute-stops of separation. The immortal draught 
of the goddess is never exhausted. She sometimes 
breaks the bowl from which we drink it, only to smile 
at seeing us so disconsolate over the trifling loss. I 
will not stop to pick up my broken bowl. I will march 
forward, albeit with unsatisfied heart. 

The Bara Rani came and asked me: ‘What is the 
meaning, brother, of all these books being packed up 
and sent off in box-loads ? ’ 

‘ It only means,’ I replied, ‘ that I have not yet been 
able to get over my fondness for them.’ 

‘ I only wish you would keep your fondness for 
some other things as well! Do you mean you are 
never coming back home ? ’ 

‘ I shall be coming and going, but shall not immure 
myself here any more.’ 

‘ Oh indeed I Then just come along to my room and 
see how many things I have been unable to shake off 
my fondness for.’ With this she took me by the hand 
and marched me off. 

In my sister-in-law’s rooms I found numberless 
boxes and bundles ready packed. She opened one of 
the boxes and said : ‘ See, brother, look at all my pan- 
making things. In this bottle I have catechu powder 
scented with the pollen of screw-pine blossoms. These 
little tin boxes are all for different kinds of spices. I 
have not forgotten my playing cards and draught- 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


269 


board either. If you two are over-busy, I shall man- 
age to make other friends there, who will give me a 
game. Do you remember this comb? It was one of 
the Swadeshi combs you brought for me. . . . ’ 

* But what is all this for. Sister Rani ? Why have 
you been packing up all these things ? ’ 

‘ Do you think I am not going with you ? ’ 

‘ What an extraordinary idea ! ’ 

‘ Don’t you be afraid ! I am not going there to flirt 
with you, nor to quarrel with the Chota Rani? One 
must die sooner or later, and it is just as well to be on 
the bank of the holy Ganges before it is too late. It is 
too horrible to think of being cremated in your 
wretched burning-ground here, under that stumpy 
Banian tree, — that is why I have been refusing to die, 
and have plagued you all this time.’ 

At last I could hear the true voice of home. The 
Bara Rani came into our house as its bride, when I was 
only six years old. We have played together, through 
the drowsy afternoons, in a corner of the roof -terrace. 
I have thrown down to her green amras from the tree- 
top, to be made into deliciously indigestible chutnies by 
slicing them up with mustard, salt and fragrant herbs. 
It was my part to gather for her all the forbidden 
things from the store-room to be used in the marriage 
celebration of her doll; for, in the penal code of my 
grandmother, I alone was exempt from punishment. 


270 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


And I used to be appointed her messenger to my 
brother, whenever she wanted to coax something spe- 
cial out of him, because he could not resist my impor- 
tunity. I also remember how, when I suffered under 
the rigorous regime of the doctors of those days, — who 
would not allow anything except warm water and 
sugared cardamom seeds during feverish attacks, — my 
sister-in-law could not bear my privation and used to 
bring me delicacies on the sly. What a scolding she got 
one day when she was caught! 

And then, as we grew up, our mutual joys and sor- 
rows took on deeper tones of intimacy. How we quar- 
relled 1 Sometimes conflicts of worldly interests roused 
suspicions and jealousies, making breaches in our love; 
and when the Chota Rani came in between us, these 
breaches seemed as if they would never be mended, 
but it always turned out that the healing forces at bot- 
tom proved more powerful than the wounds on the 
surface. 

So has a true relationship grown up between us, 
from our childhood up till now, and its branching 
foliage has spread and broadened over every room and 
verandah and terrace of this great house. When I saw 
the Bara Rani make ready, with all her belongings, to 
depart from this house of ours, all the ties that bound 
us, to their wide-spreading ends, felt the shock. 

The reason was clear to me, why she had made up 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


271 


her mind to drift away towards the unknown, cutting 
asunder all her lifelong bonds of daily habit, and of 
the house itself, which she had never left for a day 
since she first entered it at the age of nine. And yet 
it was this real reason which she could not allow to 
escape her lips, preferring rather to put forward any 
other paltry excuse. 

She had only this one relationship left in all the 
world, and the poor, unfortunate, widowed and child- 
less woman had cherished it with all the tenderness 
hoarded in her heart. How deeply she had felt our 
proposed separation I never realised so keenly as when 
I stood amongst her scattered boxes and bundles. 

I could see at once that the little differences she used 
to have with Bimala, about money matters, did not 
proceed from any sordid worldliness, but because she 
felt that her claims in regard to this one relationship 
of her life had been overridden and its ties weakened 
for her by the coming in between of this other woman 
from goodness knows where! She had been hurt at 
every turn and yet had not the right to complain. 

And Bimala? She also had felt that the Senior 
Rani’s claim over me was not based merely on our 
social connection, but went much deeper; and she was 
jealous of these ties between us, reaching back to our 
childhood. 

To-day my heart knocked heavily against the doors 


272 THE HOME AND^THE WORLD 

of my breast. I sank down upon one of the boxes as I 
said : ‘ How I should love, Sister Rani, to go back to 
the days when we first met in this old house of ours.’ 

* No, brother dear,’ she replied with a sigh, ‘ I would 
not live my life again, — not as a woman! Let what I 
have had to bear end with this one birth. I could not 
bear it over again.’ 

I said to her : ‘ The freedom to which we pass 
through sorrow is greater than the sorrow.’ 

' That may be so for you men. Freedom is for you. 
But we women would keep others bound. We would 
rather be put into bondage ourselves. No, no, brother, 
you will never get free from our toils. If you needs 
must spread your wings, you will have to take us with 
you ; we refuse to be left behind. That is why I have 
gathered together all this weight of luggage. It would 
never do to allow men to run too light.’ 

‘ I can feel the weight of your words,’ I said laugh- 
ing, ‘ and if we men do not complain of your burdens, 
it is because women pay us so handsomely for what 
they make us carry.’ 

* You carry it,’ she said, ' because it is made up of 
many small things. Whichever one you think of, re- 
jecting pleads that it is so light. And so with much 
lightness we weigh you down. . . . When do we start ? ’ 

‘ The train leaves at half-past eleven to-night. There 
will be lots of time.’ 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


273 


‘ Look here, do be good for once and listen to just 
one word of mine. Take a good nap this afternoon. 
You know you never get any sleep in the train. You 
look so pulled down, you might go to pieces any mo- 
ment. Come along, get through your bath first.' 

As we went towards my room, Khema, the maid, 
came up and with an ultra-modest pull at her veil told 
us, in deprecatingly low tones, that the Police Inspec- 
tor had arrived with a prisoner and wanted to see the 
Maharaja. 

‘ Is the Maharaja a thief, or a robber,’ the Bara Rani 
flared up, ‘ that he should be set upon so by the police ? 
Go and tell the Inspector that the Maharaja is at his 
bath.’ 

* Let me just go and see what is the matter,’ I 
pleaded. ' It may be something urgent.’ 

‘ No, no,’ my sister-in-law insisted. ‘ Our Chota 
Rani was making a heap of cakes last night. I’ll send 
some to the Inspector, to keep him quiet till you’re 
ready.’ With this she pushed me into my room and 
shut the door on me. 

I had not the power to resist such tyranny, — so rare 
is it in this world. Let the Inspector while away the 
time eating cakes. What if business is a bit neglected ? 

The police had been in great form these last few 
days arresting now this one, now that. Each day some 
innocent person or other would be brought along to 


274 the home and the world 


enliven the assembly in my office-room. One more 
such unfortunate, I supposed, must have been brought 
in that day. But why should the Inspector alone be 
regaled with cakes? That would not do at all. I 
thumped vigorously on the door. 

‘ If you are going mad, be quick and pour some water 
over your head, that will keep you cool,’ said my sister- 
in-law from the passage. 

‘ Send down cakes for two,’ I shouted. ‘ The per- 
son who has been brought in as the thief probably de- 
serves them better. Tell the man to give him a good 
big helping.’ 

I hurried through my bath. When I came out, I 
found Bimal sitting on the floor outside.^ Could this 
be my Bimal of old, my proud, sensitive Bimal? 

What favour could she be wanting to beg, seated 
like this at my door? As I stopped short, she stood 
up and said gently with downcast eyes : ‘ I would have 
a word with you.’ 

‘ Come inside then,’ I said. 

• But are you going out on any particular business ? ’ 

‘ I was, but let that be. I want to hear . . . ’ 

' No, finish your business first. We will have our 
talk after you have had your dinner.’ 

I went off to my sitting-room, to find the Police In- 

1 Sitting on the bare floor is a sign of mourning, and so, by 
association of ideas, of an abject attitude of mind. — Tr. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


27s 

specter’s plate quite empty. The person he had 
brought with him, however, was still busy eating. 

‘ Hullo ! ’ I ejaculated in surprise. ‘ You, Amulya? ’ 

‘ It is I, sir,’ said Amulya, with his mouth full of 
cake. ‘ I’ve had quite a feast. And if you don’t mind, 
I’ll take the rest with me.’ With this he proceeded to 
tie up the remaining cakes in his handkerchief. 

‘ What does this mean ? ’ I asked, staring at the 
Inspector. 

The man laughed. ‘ We are no nearer, sir,’ he said, 
‘ to solving the problem of the thief : meanwhile the 
mystery of the theft deepens.’ He then produced 
something tied up in a rag, which when untied disclosed 
a bundle of currency notes. ‘ This, Maharaja,’ said 
the Inspector, ‘ is your six thousand rupees ! ’ 

‘ Where was it found ? ’ 

‘ In Amulya Babu’s hands. He went last evening to 
the manager of your Chakna sub-office to tell him that 
the money had been found. The manager seemed to 
be in a greater state of trepidation at the recovery than 
he had been at the robbery. He was afraid he would be 
suspected of having made away with the notes and of 
now making up a cock-and-bull story for fear of being 
found out. He asked Amulya to wait, on the pretext 
of getting him some refreshment, and came straight 
over to the Police Office. I rode off at once, kept 
Amulya with me, and have been busy with him the 


276 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


whole morning. He refuses to tell us where he got 
the money from. I warned him he would be kept under 
restraint till he did so. In that case, he informed me, 
he would have to lie. Very well, I said, he might 
do so if he pleased. Then he stated that he had found 
the money under a bush. I pointed out to him that 
it was not quite so easy to lie as all that. Under what 
bush? Where was the place? Why was he there? — 
All this would have to be stated as well. “ Don’t you 
worry,” he said, “ there is plenty of time to invent all 
that.” ’ 

‘ But, Inspector,’ I said, ‘ why are you badgering a 
respectable young gentleman like Amulya Babu ? ’ 

‘ I have no desire to harass him,’ said the Inspector. 
‘ He is not only a gentleman, but the son of Nibaran 
Babu, my school-fellow. Let me tell you, Maharaja, 
exactly what must have happened. Amulya knows the 
thief, but wants to shield him by drawing suspicion on 
himself. That is just the sort of bravado he loves to 
indulge in.’ The Inspector turned to Amulya. ‘ Look 
here, young man,’ he continued, ‘ I also was eighteen 
once upon a time, and a student in the Ripon College. 
I nearly got into gaol trying to rescue a hack driver 
from a police constable. It was a near shave.’ Then 
he turned again to me and said: " Maharaja, the real 
thief will now probably escape, but I think I can tell 
you who is at the bottom of it all.’ 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


277 


‘ Who is it, then ? ' I asked. 

* That manager, in collusion with the guard, Kasim.’ 

When the Inspector, having argued out his theory to 

his own satisfaction, at last departed, I said to Amulya : 
‘ If you will tell me who took the money, I promise 
you no one shall be hurt.’ 

‘ I did,’ said he. 

* But how can that be? What about the gang of 
armed men? . . . ’ 

* It was I, by myself, alone ! ’ 

What Amulya then told me was indeed extraordi- 
nary. The manager had just finished his supper and 
was on the verandah rinsing out his mouth. The place 
was somewhat dark. Amulya had a revolver in each 
pocket, one loaded with blank cartridges, the other with 
ball. He had a mask over his face. He flashed a bull’s 
eye lantern on the manager’s face and fired a blank 
shot. The man swooned away. Some of the guards, 
who were off duty, came running up, but when Amulya 
fired another blank shot at them they lost no time in 
taking cover. Then Kasim, who was on duty, came up 
whirling a quarter-staff. This time Amulya aimed a 
bullet at his legs, and finding himself hit, Kasim col- 
lapsed on the floor. Amulya then made the trembling 
manager, who had come to his senses, open the safe and 
deliver up six thousand rupees. Finally he took one of 
the estate horses and galloped off a few miles, there 


278 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


let the animal loose, and quietly walked up here, to our 
place. 

‘ What made you do all this, Amulya ? * I asked. 

‘ There was a grave reason, Maharaja,’ he replied. 

‘ But why, then, did you try to return the money ? ’ 

‘ Let her come, at whose command I did so. In her 
presence I shall make a clean breast of it.’ 

‘ And who may she ” be ? ’ 

‘ My sister, the Chota Rani ! ’ 

I sent for Bimala. She came hesitatingly, barefoot, 
with a white shawl over her head. I had never seen 
my Bimal like this before. She seemed to have 
wrapped herself in a morning light. 

Amulya prostrated himself in salutation and took 
the dust of her feet. Then, as he rose, he said : • Your 
command has been executed, sister. The money is 
returned.’ 

‘ You have saved me, my little brother,’ said Bimal. 

* With your image in my mind, I have not uttered a 
single lie,’ Amulya continued. ^ My watchword Bande 
Mataram has been cast away at your feet for good. I 
have also received my reward, your prasad, as soon as 
I came to the palace.’ 

Bimal looked at him blankly, unable to follow his 
last words. Amulya brought out his handkerchief, and 
untying it showed her the cakes put away inside. ‘ I 
did not eat them all,’ he said. ‘ I have kept these to 
eat after you have helped me with your own hands.’ 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


279 


I could see that I was not wanted here. I went out 
of the room. I could only preach and preach, so I 
mused, and get my effigy burnt for my pains. I had 
not yet been able to bring back a single soul from the 
path of death. They who have the power, can do so by 
a mere sign. My words have not that ineffable mean- 
ing. I am not a flame, only a black coal, which has 
gone out. I can light no lamp. That is what the story 
of my life shows, — ^my row of lamps has remained 
unlit. 

XVI 

I returned slowly towards the inner apartments. The 
Bara Rani’s room must have been drawing me again. 
It had become an absolute necessity for me, that day, to 
feel that this life of mine had been able to strike some 
real, some responsive chord in some other harp of life. 
One cannot realise one’s own existence by remaining 
within oneself, it has to be sought outside. 

As I passed in front of my sister-in-law’s room, she 
came out, saying : ‘ I was afraid you would be late again 
this afternoon. However, I ordered your dinner as 
soon as I heard you coming. It will be served in a 
minute.' 

‘ Meanwhile,’ I said, ‘ let me take out that money of 
yours and have it ready to take with us.’ 

As we walked on towards my room she asked me if 


28 o the home and the WORLD 


the Police Inspector had made any report about the 
robbery. I somehow did not feel inclined to tell her 
all the details of how that six thousand had come back. 
‘ That’s just what all the fuss is about,’ I said evasively. 

When I went into my dressing-room and took out 
my bunch of keys, I did not find the key of the iron safe 
on the ring. What an absurdly absent-minded fellow I 
was, to be sure ! Only this morning I had been opening 
so many boxes and things, and never noticed that this 
key was not there. 

‘ What has happened to your key ? ’ she asked me. 

I went on fumbling in this pocket and that, but could 
give her no answer. I hunted in the same place over 
and over again. It dawned on both of us that it could 
not be a case of the key being mislaid. Some one must 
have taken it off the ring. Who could it be ? Who 
else could have come into this room? 

‘ Don’t you worry about it,’ she said to me. ‘ Get 
through your dinner first. The Chota Rani must have 
kept it herself, seeing how absent-minded you are 
getting.’ 

I was, however, greatly disturbed. It was never 
Bimal’s habit to take any key of mine without telling 
me about it. Bimal was not present at my meal-time 
that day; she was busy feasting Amulya in her own 
room. My sister-in-law wanted to send for her, but I 
asked her not to do so. 


NIKHIL^S STORY 


281 


I had just finished my dinner when Bimal came in. 
I would have preferred not to discuss the matter of the 
key in the Bara Rani’s presence, but as soon as she saw 
Bimal, she asked her : ‘ Do you know, dear, where the 
key of the safe is ? ’ 

' I have it,’ was the reply. 

‘ Didn’t I say so ! ’ exclaimed my sister-in-law tri- 
umphantly. ‘ Our Chota Rani pretends not to care 
about these robberies, but she takes precautions on the 
sly, all the same.’ 

The look on Bimal’s face made my mind misgive 
me. ‘ Let the key be, now,’ I said. ‘ I will take out that 
money in the evening.’ 

‘ There you go again, putting it off,’ said the Bara 
Rani. ‘ Why not take it out and send it to the treasury 
while you have it in mind ? ’ 

‘ I have taken it out already,’ said Bimal. 

I was startled. 

‘ Where have you kept it, then ? ’ asked my sister-in- 
law. 

‘ I have spent it.’ 

‘Just listen to her! Whatever did you spend all 
that money on ? ’ 

Bimal made no reply. I asked her nothing further. 
The Bara Rani seemed about to make some further 
remark to Bimala, but checked herself. ‘ Well that is 
all right, anyway,’ she said at length, as she looked to- 


282 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


wards me. ‘ Just what I used to do with my husband’s 
loose cash. I knew it was no use leaving it with him, — 
his hundred and one hangers on would be sure to get 
hold of it. You are much the same, dear! What a 
number of ways you men know of getting through 
money. We can only save it from you by stealing it 
ourselves. Come along now. Off with you to bed.’ 

The Bara Rani led me to my room, but I hardly knew 
where I was going. She sat by my bed after I was 
stretched on it, and smiled at Bimal as she said : ‘ Give 
me one of your pans, Chotie darling, — ^What? You 
have none! You have become a regular mem-sahib. 
Then send for some from my room.’ 

‘ But have you had your dinner yet ?’ I anxiously 
enquired. 

‘ Oh long ago,’ she replied, — clearly a fib. 

She kept on chattering away there at my bedside, on 
all manner of things. The maid came and told Bimal 
that her dinner had been served and was getting cold, 
but she gave no sign of having heard it. ‘ Not had 
your dinner yet? What nonsense! It’s fearfully 
late.’ With this the Bara Rani took Bimal away with 
her. 

I could divine that there was some connexion be- 
tween the taking out of this six thousand and the 
robbing of the other. But I have no curiosity to learn 
the nature of it. I shall never ask. 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


283 


Providence leaves our life moulded in the rough, — 
its object being that we ourselves should put the finish- 
ing touches, shaping it into its final form to our taste. 
There has always been the hankering within me to 
express some great idea in the process of giving shape 
to my life on the lines suggested by the Creator. In 
this endeavor I have spent all my days. How severely 
I have curbed my desires, repressed myself at every 
step, only the Searcher of the Heart knows. 

But the difficulty is, that one’s life is not solely one’s 
own. He who would create it must do so with the 
help of his surroundings, or he will fail. So it was my 
constant dream to draw Bimal to join me in this work 
of creating myself. I loved her with all my soul; on 
the strength of that, I could not but succeed in 
winning her to my purpose, — that was my firm 
belief. 

Then I discovered that those who could simply and 
naturally draw their environment into the process of 
their self-creation belonged to one species of the genus 
‘ man,’ — and I to another. I had received the vital 
spark, but could not impart it. Those to whom I have 
surrendered my all have taken my all, but not myself 
with it. 

My trial is hard indeed. Just when I want a help- 
mate most, I am thrown back on myself alone. Never- 
theless, I record my vow that even in this trial I shall 


284 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


win through. Alone, then, shall I tread my thorny path 
to the end of this life’s journey. . . . 

I have begun to suspect that there has all along been 
a vein of tyranny in me. There was a despotism in my 
desire to mould my relations with Bimala in a hard 
clear-cut perfect form. But man’s life was not meant 
to be cast in a mould. And if we try to shape the good, 
as so much mere material, it takes a terrible revenge 
by losing its life. 

I did not realise all this while that it must have been 
this unconscious tyranny of mine which made us grad- 
ually drift apart. Bimala’s life, not finding its true 
level by reason of my pressure from above, has 
had to find an outlet by undermining its banks at 
the bottom. She has had to steal this six 
thousand rupees because she could not be open 
with me, because she felt that, in certain things, 
I despotically differed from her. 

Men, such as I, possessed with one idea, are indeed at 
one with those who can manage to agree with us ; but 
those who do not, can only get on with us by cheating 
us. It is our unyielding obstinacy, which drives even 
the simplest to tortuous ways. In trying to manufac- 
ture a helpmate, we spoil a wife. 

Could I not go back to the beginning ? Then, indeed, 
I should follow the path of the simple. I should not 
try to fetter my life’s companion with my ideas, but 


NIKHIL’S STORY 


285 


play the joyous pipes of my love and say : * Do you 
love me ? Then may you grow true to yourself in the 
light of your love. Let my suggestions be suppressed, 
let God’s design, which is in you, triumph, and my ideas 
retire abashed.’ 

But can even Nature’s nursing heal the open wound 
into which our accumulated differences have broken 
out ? The covering veil, beneath the privacy of which 
Nature’s silent forces alone can work, has been torn 
asunder. Wounds must be bandaged, — can we not 
bandage our wound with our love, so that the day may 
come when its scar will no longer be visible ? Is it not 
too late? So much time has been lost in misunder- 
standing; it has taken right up to now to come to an 
understanding; how much more time will it take for 
the correcting? What if the wound does eventually 
heal? — can the devastation it has wrought ever be 
made good ? 

There was a slight sound near the door. As I turned 
over I saw Bimala’s retreating figure through the open 
doorway. She must have been waiting by the door, 
hesitating whether to come in or not, and at last have 
decided to go back. I jumped up and bounded to the 
door, calling : ‘ Bimal.’ 

She stopped on her way. She had her back to me. 
I went and took her by the hand and led her into our 
room. She threw herself face downwards on a pillow, 


286 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


and sobbed and sobbed. I said nothing, but held her 
hand as I sat by her head. 

When her storm of grief had abated she sat up. I 
tried to draw her to my breast, but she pushed my arms 
away and knelt at my feet, touching them repeatedly 
with her head, in obeisance. I hastily drew my feet 
back, but she clasped them in her arms, saying in a 
choking voice : ‘ No, no, no, you must not take away 
your feet. Let me do my worship.’ 

I kept still. Who was I to stop her? Was I the 
god of her worship that I should have any qualms ? 

BiM ala’s story 

XXIII 

Come, come! Now is the time to set sail towards 
that great confluence, where the river of love meets the 
sea of worship. In that pure blue all the weight of its 
muddiness sinks and disappears. 

I now fear nothing, — neither myself, nor anybody 
else. I have passed through fire. What was inflam- 
mable has been burnt to ashes ; what is left is deathless. 
I have dedicated myself to the feet of him, who has 
received all my sin into the depths of his own pain. 

To-night we go to Calcutta. My inward troubles 
have so long prevented my looking after my things. 
Now let me arrange and pack them. 


BIMALA’S STORY 287 

After a while I found my husband had come in and 
was taking a hand in the packing. 

‘ This won’t do/ I said. * Did you not promise me 
you would have a sleep ? ’ 

‘ I might have made the promise/ he replied, ‘but 
my sleep did not, and it was nowhere to be found.’ 

‘ No, no,’ I repeated, - this will never do. Lie down 
for a while, at least.’ 

‘ But how can you get through all this alone ? ’ 

‘ Of course I can.’ 

‘ Well you may boast of being able to do without me. 
But frankly I can’t do without you. Even sleep re- 
fused to come to me, alone, in that room.’ Then he set 
to work again. 

But there was an interruption, in the shape of a serv- 
ant, who came and said that Sandip Babu had called 
and had asked to be announced. I did not dare to ask 
whom he wanted. The light of the sky seemed sud- 
denly to be shut down, like the leaves of a sensitive 
plant. 

‘ Come, Bimal,’ said my husband. ‘ Let us go and 
hear what Sandip has to tell us. Since he has come 
back again, after taking his leave, he must have some- 
thing special to say/ 

I went, simply because it would have been still more 
embarrassing to stay. Sandip was staring at a picture 
on the wall. As we entered he said : ‘ You must be 


288 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


wondering why the fellow has returned. But you know 
the ghost is never laid till all the rites are complete.’ 
With these words he brought out of his pocket some- 
thing tied in his handkerchief, and laying it on the 
table, undid the knot. It was those sovereigns. 

‘ Don’t you mistake me, Nikhil,’ he said. ‘ You must 
not imagine that the contagion of your company has 
suddenly turned me honest ; I am not the man to come 
back in slobbering repentance to return ill-gotten 
money. But . . . ’ 

He left his speech unfinished. After a pause he 
turned towards Nikhil, but said to me: ‘ After all 
these days. Queen Bee, the ghost of compunction 
has found an entry into my hitherto untroubled 
conscience. As I have to wrestle with it every 
night, after my first sleep is over, I cannot call 
it a phantom of my imagination. There is no 
escape even for me till its debt is paid. Into the hands 
of that spirit, therefore, let me make restitution. God- 
dess! From you, alone, of all the world, I shall not be 
able to take away anything. I shall not be rid of you 
till I am destitute. Take these back! ’ 

He took out at the same time the jewel casket from 
under his tunic and put it down, and then left us with 
hasty steps. 

* Listen to me, Sandip,’ my husband called after 
him. 


BIMALA’S STORY 


289 


‘ I have not the time, Nikhil,' said Sandip as he 
paused near the door. ‘ The Mussulmans, I am told, 
have taken me for an invaluable gem, and are conspiring 
to loot me and hide me away in their graveyard. But 
I feel that it is necessary that I should live. I have just 
twenty-five minutes to catch the North-bound train. 
So, for the present, I must be gone. We shall have our 
talk out at the next convenient opportunity. If you 
take my advice, don’t you delay in getting away either. 
I salute you. Queen Bee, Queen of the bleeding hearts. 
Queen of desolation ! ’ 

Sandip then left almost at a run. I stood stock still ; 
I had never realised in such a manner before, how triv- 
ial, how paltry, this gold and these jewels were. Only 
a short while ago I was so busy thinking what I should 
take with me, and how I should pack it. Now I felt 
that there was no need to take anything at all. To set 
out and go forth was the important thing. 

My husband left his seat and came up and took me 
by the hand. ‘ It is getting late,’ he said. ‘ There is 
not much time left to complete our preparations for 
the journey.’ 

At this point Chandranath Babu suddenly came in. 
Finding us both together, he fell back for a moment. 
Then he said, " Forgive me, my little mother, if I in- 
trude. Nikhil, the Mussulmans are out of hand. They 
are looting Harish Kundu’s treasury. That does not 


u 


290 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 

so much matter. But what is intolerable is the violence 
that is being done to the women of their house.* 

‘ I am off,* said my husband. 

* What can you do there ? * I pleaded, as I held him 
by the hand. ' O, sir,* I appealed to his master. ‘ Will 
you not tell him not to go ? * 

‘ My little mother,* he replied, ‘ there is no time to 
do anything else.* 

‘ Don’t be alarmed, Bimal,* said my husband, as he 
left us. 

When I went to the window I saw my husband gal- 
loping away on horseback, with not a weapon in his 
hands. 

In another minute the Bara Rani came running in. 
* What have you done, Chotie darling,* she cried. ‘ How 
could you let him go ? * 

* Call the Dewan at once,* she said, turning to a 
servant, t 

The Ranis never appeared before the Dewan, but 
the Bara Rani had no thought that day for appearances. 

* Send a mounted man to bring back the Maharaja 
at once,* she said, as soon as the Dewan came up. 

* We have all entreated him to stay. Rani mother,* 
said the Dewan, ‘ but he refused to turn back.* 

‘ Send word to him that the Bara Rani is ill, that she 
is on her death-bed,* cried my sister-in-law wildly. 

When the Dewan had left she turned on me with a 


BIMALA^S STORY 


291 


furious outburst. ‘ Oh you witch, you ogress, you 
could not die yourself, but needs must send him to his 
death! . . 

The light of the day began to fade. The sun set 
behind the feathery foliage of the blossoming Sajna 
tree. I can see every different shade of that sunset 
even to-day. Two masses of cloud on either side of the 
sinking orb made it look like a great bird with fiery- 
feathered wings outspread. It seemed to me that this 
fateful day was taking its flight, to cross the ocean of 
night. 

It became darker and darker. Like the flames of a 
distant village on fire, leaping up every now and then 
above the horizon, a distant din swelled up in recurring 
waves into the darkness. 

The bells of the evening worship rang out from our 
temple. I knew the Bara Rani was sitting there, with 
palms joined in silent prayer. But I could not move a 
step from the window. 

The roads, the village beyond, and the still more 
distant fringe of trees, grew more and more vague. 
The lake in our grounds looked up into the sky with a 
dull lustre, like a blind man’s eye. On the left the 
tower seemed to be craning its neck to catch sight of 
something that was happening. 

The sounds of night take on all manner of disguises. 
A twig snaps, and one thinks that somebody is running 


292 THE HOME AND THE WORLD 


for his life. A door slams, and one feels it to be the 
sudden heart-thump of a startled world. 

Lights would suddenly flicker under the shade of the 
distant trees, and then go out again. Horses^ hoofs 
would clatter, now and again, only to turn out to be 
riders leaving the palace gates. 

I continually had the feeling that, if only I could die, 
all this turmoil would come to an end. So long as I 
was alive my sins would remain rampant, scattering 
destruction on every side. I remembered the pistol in 
my box. But my feet refused to leave the window in 
quest of it. Was I not awaiting my fate? 

The gong of the watch solemnly struck ten. A little 
later, groups of lights appeared in the distance and a 
great crowd wound its way, like some great serpent, 
along the roads in the darkness, towards the palace 
gates. 

The Dewan rushed to the gate at the sound. Just 
then a rider came galloping in. ‘ What’s the news, 
Jata? ’ asked the Dewan. 

‘ Not good,’ was the reply. 

I could hear these words distinctly from my win- 
dow. But something was next whispered which I 
could not catch. 

Then came a palanquin, followed by a litter. The 
doctor was walking alongside the palanquin. 

‘ What do you think, doctor ? ’ asked the Dewan. 


BIMALA’S STORY 

‘ Can’t say yet/ the doctor replied, 
the head is a serious one/ 

‘ And Amulya Babu ? ’ 

‘ He has a bullet through the heart. 


THE END 


293 

‘ The wound in 

He is done for.’ 


Printed in the United States of America. 


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